Beneath Still Waters
by J. A. Lowell
Summary: Does nature or nurture mark one's destiny? An examination of the forces that shaped the Great Detective.
1. Of Nature, Human and Otherwise

_Boredom, and distance, has convinced me to repost this story. I will continue to write it, despite previous decisions not to. Special thanks to BaskervilleBeauty, for editorial assistance, and for leading me to believe that people might not mind my hypocrisy. Her advice and questions have been invaluable. _

_Policy on reviews: If you read this piece, I would appreciate constructive criticism. If you think it's good, bad, or mediocre, please let me know, and feel quite free to detail your opinion. Thanks also to everyone who reviewed previously – I've kept them all, and cherish each one._

_This is a work of fiction; any similarity to living or dead persons and/or events is purely coincidental and unintended, and historical figures are used fictitiously. With the exception of public domain material, all rights are retained by the author under copyright law._

**Chapter I: Of Nature, Human and Otherwise**

"_All very young beings are eminently sensitive to injurious or unnatural conditions of life." – Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species_

The picture book that he pretended to be absorbed in had heavy pages, so heavy that they could almost be called thick. He was rather too old for the fairy tales, but treasured the sense of solace that seemed to emanate from the pages. There was comfort in the book, despite the worn edges, and the pictures that had been recently disfigured by water stains. Charlotte didn't know that the book was ruined, he had been too afraid to tell her. It was not that he thought she would scold him, for she had never, in his recollection, done anything of the sort. Rather, she would sigh sadly, in the back of her throat, would rest a weary hand upon his shoulder, and would look past him with that curious detached pain in her eyes. He looked up, somehow vaguely certain that she had heard his thoughts, and would notice the condition of the book.

But no, she was still staring out the window, her lacework trailing from a limp hand, forgotten. The dying sun, finally emerged from the grey clouds, turned the stray wisps of her hair into a crimson halo, floating about her face. He quickly returned his gaze to the book, as if guilty of some indiscretion. The motion must have been caught in her peripheral vision, however, for she broke from her reverie, and turned from the window in a languid, tired fashion.

He returned the picture book to its appointed place on the shelf, and hesitantly addressed her. "Charlotte?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you suppose that it will rain again tomorrow?"

A kindly, albeit sad, smile flickered across the woman's face. "No, Sherlock, I rather think that tomorrow will be sunny. Indeed, this is quite enough rain already, is it not? Tomorrow morning we shall go down to the brook, directly after breakfast."

"And stay until tea?" Childish enthusiasm rippled through his voice, and hope sparkled in his clear grey eyes.

A bit of sparkle hinted in her own eyes, and her smile became more permanent, "Certainly, but only if you help to carry the picnic basket." He nodded emphatically, eager to please. She stooped to kiss his forehead, and gently ruffled his hair. "Off with you now, you really must change your trousers before dinner; Father's guests will not think you a gentleman if you come to the table with holes in your knees."

His progress towards a respectable appearance was reluctant. He had listened from the kitchen pantry and thus learned that the guests were to be Colonel Penn, and his chatty, overbearing wife, but it would not have mattered had the guests been possessed of any other identity. The dining table sat six, and he was sure to find himself seated beside Mycroft. This was cause for concern, especially upon consideration of the treasured picture book that had gone swimming in the mere. He briefly hoped that Jane had not had time to replenish his supply of clean trousers. His hopes were soon dashed – for all that she was rotund and slow moving, Jane-who-was-not-to-be-called-Jennie had the ceaseless determination of a London train. He considered feigning illness, but decided against it, as any reasonably convincing display would result in a cancellation of the next day's outing.

Finally, he heard the Colonel's coach crunching up the drive, and there was nothing else for it, he would simply have to descend the stairs. He sought a reassuring glimpse of Charlotte as she admitted the Colonel and his wife. There was an exhausted air about her stance and mannerisms that even pinched cheeks would not dispel. As she guided the haughty couple into the parlour, she caught his eye, and made a gentle motion for him to follow.

He sat stiffly upon one of the low settees, trying to be one with the other furnishings, as Jane's newly crisp white apron swished past while she served drinks. Mycroft kept trying to catch his eye, and he studiously ignored the older boy, maintaining an avid interest in the blue ribbons that competed with large roses on the patterned carpeting.

Having accomplished this task beyond satisfactory degree, he allowed his gaze to roam to the neat boots with their glinting buckles that just peeked from beneath the hem of Mrs. Penn's skirt. Odd though, that there should be a tiny nick along the inner curve of the left boot. Under what circumstances could a lady of some status find herself walking along a rough road in good shoes?

Jane returned to the parlour, and intimated that the table had been laid. The adults rose, his father taking Mrs. Penn's arm, and the Colonel taking Charlotte's. He and Mycroft brought up the rear of the procession. The older boy leaned towards him, quietly hissing, "You could try being less of an embarrassment to Father. Honestly, must you look as daft as you are?"

One of the courses was to be fish. He could smell the odours emanating from the kitchen, and experienced several moments of blind panic, unable to recall which fork he ought to use. Perhaps he could just sneak a glimpse of Charlotte, or one of the guests, without appearing to be staring.

He was destined to have no need of the fish fork, for within minutes of being seated, Mycroft lost interest in the adult conversation, and discovered that he could rock Sherlock's chair by using convenient rungs between the legs. The first quivering pitch of the chair startled the younger boy, and his fork clattered against his plate with a less-than-judicious rattle. He shot a frightened glance towards his father. Had he noticed? Narrowed eyes assured him that his indiscretion had not gone unnoticed, and would not go unpunished either.

He had thought Mycroft finished, but as the conversation resumed its normal pace, so too did the onslaught. This time, however, Sherlock was more prepared, and no one noticed his slight swaying. Finally the older boy tired of it, and turned his attention to his soup bowl.

Sherlock was, however, premature in his slight sigh of relief, for as Jane finished clearing the dishes in preparation for the next course, Mycroft's foot again found its way to the rung, and he lifted the chair sharply, jolting Sherlock from his seat. He pitched onto the floor, biting off the cry that rose in his throat. A violent tremor of fear quivered through him as he watched his father's feet shift, but Jane was nothing if not efficient. She barely paused to shift the dishes from her right hand into her left, before snatching his collar, and all but dragging him from the room.

Pushing him into the kitchen, she cast her hand about for a wooden spoon, which Mauricette, the French cook, supplied with a mean smirk. He swallowed the sobs that threatened as the blows fell upon his smarting palms. "To your room! You'll have no supper tonight, you miserable child!" was accompanied by a final clap upon his backside, and he fairly raced from the kitchen.

By the time he made his way up the stairs, the pain had almost entirely ceased, but he huddled into the window seat, finally giving voice to his tears. It simply wasn't fair that he should be punished for Mycroft having tipped his chair. He drew his knees against his chest, his shoulders shaking with quiet, whimpering sobs. Finally, spent, he raised his tear-stained face, and pressed his cheek against the cool glass.

Behind closed eyes, he escaped into that perfect world where every day except Sunday was sunny. Charlotte had thought it funny that Sunday should be rainy, but, as he had patiently explained, you couldn't do anything on Sunday anyway, so it might as well rain. Today, it was Monday, and there was a whole week of sunny days stretched before him. He and Charlotte would walk down to town, or perhaps to the brook, or the mere. No, today they would go to visit Mrs. Jacobson. Charlotte would say that she needed more eggs for the pound cake (Jane couldn't go herself, because she was a disagreeable person, and as such did not exist in a perfect world.) But he knew that Davy Jacobson's old collie had whelped again, and that this was the true reason they were going. Of course, Charlotte would get the eggs as well, for pound cake was awfully good, and he did like it ever so much –

The door softly creaked open, and Charlotte's footsteps were gentle as she crossed the room to sit opposite the boy hunched in the window seat. Her voice was low and even, "You must try not to be so sad, dear one. True, it wasn't your fault, but I can make that case no better than you are able to. This is our lot in life, and we must simply smile. God places trials in our path for a reason; they are to prepare us for the future. Go to bed, Sherlock; we will go down to the brook tomorrow, as I promised." She tucked some wayward hair behind his ear, and let her hand fall to his shoulder for a brief moment before departing.

He did not follow her advice directly, did not even move until the aroma of the platter she had brought reached him. He fumbled with the kerosene lantern (Father had thought it a pointless indulgence to have gas installed in the upper stories), finally managed to light it, and replaced the glass before turning his attention to the cold trout, thankfully supplied with a perfectly typical fork.

The morning dawned brightly, and Sherlock woke to the trilling of a bird outside the window. He opened the window further, and craned his neck outside, scanning the bright new leaves for some sign of the songbird. Raising a hand to shade his eyes, he could just make out the large passerine perched in a high branch. He amused himself for a few minutes by mimicking its airy whistles, and idly watched as one of the grooms brought the carriage around. Mycroft and his father ascended the steps, and the carriage rattled off down the lane.

Sherlock felt no particular envy for his older brother who was permitted to accompany Father to London. He would much rather be here than sitting around in stuffy offices – he and Charlotte were going down to the brook today, after all. He whistled one last duet with the mistle thrush as he dressed, and then descended the stairs.

The butterfly net and picnic basket were already waiting at the door, and he bolted his breakfast at the servants' table in the kitchen. Jane always let the porridge boil too long, and never gave him enough salt for it, but he was in no mood to complain. Charlotte swept into the kitchen, laughing, and perched on the edge of another of the high stools that surrounded the table in a haphazard fashion. Something in her brightened eyes made Mauricette scowl, but she ignored the iron-haired cook. Her fingers danced along the table's edge as she waited for him to finish wiping his bowl with toast.

It was not the first time that he had witnessed such a transformation in her character. It disturbed him not in that he disliked the change, but rather it provided such a startling contrast to her usual torpor that he could not help but be concerned. Bits of a conversation with his brother, as the latter had come from his lessons, tended to insinuate itself in his mind at such times. _"Pity she won't hurry and die."_ He swallowed the memory down with the last bite of toast.

They walked decorously down the lane until out of sight of the house, and then Charlotte's trim steps fell into happier patterns, and her young companion swung the picnic basket with cheerful abandon. Shortly, they set about scaling the stone wall that enclosed the pasture. Sherlock felt a touch of pride in that he was able to reach the summit of the wall without aid, although he allowed Charlotte to lift him down, as it was rather more than the distance he was prepared to jump. They strolled without particular aim for some time, watching the suspicious mare that kept herself between them and the wobbly-legged foal, and remarking upon the splendid dew-covered spider webs that were suspended like tapestries between blades of grass.

Soon enough, they reached the eastern edge of the pasture. They made a pretence of sitting on the wall to listen to the larks, but it did not fail to escape the child's notice that her face was flushed, and she coughed somewhat more than usual. He wondered, with no small amount of concern, if Mycroft had spoken truly when he had insisted that she coughed blood. Although he had never observed such a thing himself, it did not necessarily mean that Mycroft had lied. Of course, he would never ask the lady in question, for fear that putting name to his concerns would give them substance.

Upon descending the wall they made a special study of its nooks and crannies, eyes alert for the glimmer of beetles to add to the collecting trays. If this was odd behaviour for a respectably attired woman and a child of six, neither chose to acknowledge that fact. Finally, this task concluded, they set out with more purpose for the brook, pausing only for Sherlock to impress fluttering butterflies with his awkward and unsuccessful attempts at wielding the net. Upon reaching the narrow path that wound down to the laughing water, they resumed their search for beetles, scanning the mast and duff that had accumulated at the bases of the trees, and overturning logs with an industrious vigour.

In time, however, the sun's heat upon their backs made them aware of the passage of the day, and they retired to a mossy log that overlooked the water. Sherlock, who was disposed to chatter when the two were alone, fell upon the chicken with little comment, and Charlotte noted this with a laugh. His reticence, however, did justice to Mauricette's cooking; although she was unpleasant, there could be no faulting her culinary abilities.

"Do you remember Miss Currie, who came to tea just after Christmas?" Charlotte asked at length.

"The one who used to be a secretary, and is going to marry that rich American?" he asked around a bite of apple.

Charlotte cocked her head, a queer smile pulling at the corners of her lips, "How on earth did you know that? That she worked as a secretary? You're right, of course."

"Her fingernails were spoon-shaped, which means that she's kept them cut short for a long time. And I noticed that you always cut your fingernails before you type, so that they don't break off when you strike the keys."

"That's clever, Sherlock. But, mightn't she have just had the unladylike habit of biting them in the past? That would make the ends of her fingernails broad as well, one would think."

"Well, yes, but I _knew_ she was a secretary. I don't know how, I just _knew_."

Charlotte laughed, shaking her head, and continued, "Well, I received a note from her. It would seem that Miss Currie has a younger brother who is about to begin his studies, and would like to supplement his income a bit over the summer, so as not to be a burden upon his sister. I do believe you've inherited your mother's lovely long fingers; how would it suit you to learn to play the piano?"

"I should prefer some other instrument. The piano is very easy, it seems." He smirked, enjoying the game.

"Then you are in luck, for Richard Currie has never touched an ivory key. However, he is, I am told, admirably acquainted with the violin. Would that suit you better, darling?"

"Oh, tolerably well, I should imagine." He grinned outright, relishing the absurdity of the notion. Him! To learn to play the violin! Father would never permit such a thing; it cost a pretty enough penny to send Mycroft away to school.

"Excellent, I shall speak with Father about it when he returns." Her manner was complacent as she gathered the leavings of the picnic back into the wicker basket.

"Oh, but Charlotte, you can't be serious!"

"I certainly am, dear child. It is high time for you to get a measure of the preferential treatment that your brother does. I acquiesced in the matter of the dog, but if you want to learn the violin, there is no argument your father can make against it."

* * *

I have often had cause to remark that Mr. Sherlock Holmes did not think highly of the passions that men were wont to feel stirring in their breasts. In all matters, he valued precision and logic, the cool calculating methodology that was every bit as essential to his work as his incredible faculty for observation.

Yet although I've characterized him often enough as an analytical machine, his brain was not an isolated phenomenon, nor his body a mere shell for said brain, providing nourishment and locomotive ability. Certainly, I've no doubt that my friend should have made a poor lover, and an even poorer husband, especially considering his personal habits which I have detailed in the past. However, to insist that his entire manner were devoid of passion altogether would be folly, for he showed a particular devotion in conjunction to his violin. His hands upon the instrument were always gentle, and while he might carelessly cast aside even a favoured pipe, nothing could induce him to treat the violin with such harshness.

His powers upon the violin, as I may have noted, were remarkable, despite the fact that he largely neglected any distinguished airs, preferring to play those tuneless compositions which so sorely tried my patience.

For all that Holmes was inclined to scoff at the softer emotions, and those passions that drive men to love and war, there is little doubt in my mind that he too felt their pull and sway. I fancy that those grating performances to which I was often treated during the time that we shared rooms were a mirror to the tortured abyss of his soul.

_

* * *

_

"I had expected you home rather earlier, Robert." She said it with a sneer in her voice.

"Do you presume to reproach me, woman?"

"Certainly not, Robert. I was merely commenting upon the degradation of the driving team. They are, perhaps, getting a little too old for the trip to the rail station. So much so that what should be a half hour's journey now takes three." This last was delivered in a cool and haughty manner.

"I'll not tolerate your impudence for another moment. Speak and have done with it; spare me your shrewish nature."

"I would like you to consider the notion of young Sherlock taking violin lessons."

"I've indulged that worthless child often enough. The two of you disfigure my public profile plenty enough already, I'll not sacrifice my money and my peace of mind for his sake or yours."

"Disfigure! Perhaps, good sir, you ought to explain your rationale!" Sarcasm warred with incredulity in her tone.

"Well, what else would you call the unseemly spectacle of a Holmes woman acting like the child she tends to, traipsing through the woods? It is positively disgraceful. Have you any notion of the grime and squalor your idiotic antics drag this house into?"

"We collect beetles, Robert. It is a perfectly respectable hobby in naturalist circles. Charles Darwin himself collected beetles as a boy." She had softened her voice, and the sarcastic edge had dropped away.

"_Never _speak of that heathen in my presence, Charlotte! Is _that_ what you would have my son become? A filthy heretic?" His fist pounded upon the desk, the sound reverberating like a gunshot.

"Then let him learn the violin, and I shall not encourage him further in these naturalist pursuits." Her tone was very soft, and faintly conciliatory. "I shall pay the tutor from my own purse, it need cost you nothing."

Silence.

She spoke faintly now, "I have lied for you, Robert. I have committed sins so great as to be damned to Hell for all eternity. I have cut out that which was my own flesh at your request. I loved you once, Robert. I did, truly."

Silence.

"Oh, indeed, you've made good on your promise that I should be a Holmes lady. Little good that it has done me. A torture, Robert! That's what it is, and I'll not deny that I deserve it, but you have a debt to me, and I _will_ see it paid."

Silence, and then, finally, a terse response: "You think to blackmail me into acquiescence? You will do more harm to your own standing than you could ever do to mine."

Her voice was defiant now, strong, and wrathful. "If I should lie in filth, never fear, husband ­– you will be my bedfellow!"

An empty void, pulsating with hatred, with secrets, with two wills in silent ferocious competition, was finally broken with a few curt words: "Very well, you may have your way."

When Sherlock woke, stiff and cramped in the small space behind the cabinet, the conversation as he recalled it held a dreamlike quality. In the days that followed, he was never entirely sure that the exchange had not been a figment of his imagination. Nevertheless, after the passage of several weeks, Richard Currie's great heavy trunk was installed in the south-facing room of the attic. The young man himself followed a day later, and life at Aspen Hill inexplicably _shifted_.


	2. Of Lessons, Music and Otherwise

**Chapter II: Of Lessons, Music and Otherwise**

_".. musical notes and rhythm were first acquired by the male or female progenitors of mankind for the sake of charming the opposite sex."_ _– Charles Darwin, The Descent of_ _Man_

"Well, that's more the idea of the thing, keep the bow at right angles."

"But it still sounds so awful! I'll never be any good at this." He set the violin down with a dejected sigh.

Mr. Richard Currie stretched himself, and rose from his chair, releasing a faint cloud of dust motes that danced in the sunlight. He glanced at the boy, and his brogue softened as he addressed his downcast pupil. "Come now, Master Sherlock. That bow is in want of a good re-hairing; the music will never sound right. Even if I were to play it myself, that poor violin would sound wretched. We are not learning about sound, my little friend, we are learning about technique."

"I don't see how I can be expected to learn one without the other." He felt his cheeks warming, and looked down at his loafers, intently interested in whether or not he had laced them properly. What must Mr. Currie think of him, whining like that?

But the tutor was hardly offended. He chuckled, pushed back his sandy hair, and shook his head. "I am beginning to think that my promising pupil is an artist! Everything seen as interconnected, part of a whole. A creative, Master Sherlock, that's what you are!"

"I'm sorry, I am not quite sure I understand."

"Come here to the window. Our dear Mrs. Holmes tells me you've a keen knack for observation; I seem to see the Millers' hired hand wandering up the lane. What can you tell me about him?"

"Yes, that's the fellow, but he's come from town today, not Millers'."

"And how do you know that?"

"I don't know. I just -- "

"You just know. Now do you begin to understand? I'm certain there is a reason why you perceive that, but for the life of me, I can't see it myself. Think on it, Master Sherlock, what indicates to you that he's come from town?"

The child pursed his lips, a frown creasing his forehead. Was Mr. Currie mocking him? Why, it was as plain as the nose on his face. Any fool could see that --

"Do you see that his shoes are freshly blacked and polished? Well, if he had come from Millers', he would have gotten them dusty, but they're clean, so he's been walking on the tarmac. And he's had his coat off, look, the collar's crooked. There's no reason he'd take his coat off just for the jaunt over here from Millers'."

Mr. Currie grinned, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder, "There now! See, the conclusion is built upon the details. It doesn't really drop fully-formed into your lap; there are separate bits and pieces that all add up to make the whole. You are a creative, Master Sherlock, you see the big picture right away, the end result, because your mind just flits right over the little details.

"But to be a musician, you need to be a mathematician, a logician. Pay attention to the details, pull the big picture apart and look at all the little pieces. That is essential, and therefore we are going to keep learning technique. After all, wouldn't you rather be an accomplished violinist than a violist?"

"Is there so much of a difference? I thought it was only a matter of size. If the dimensions make a difference, then I'm learning to be neither right now, because this violin is only quarter-size."

"Yes, but don't fret, you're growing like a weed, which is another reason we shan't bother to have that horrid bow re-haired. You'll have grown out of that violin by the time summer is over. Or, then again, perhaps not." The tutor was looking out the window again, smiling in a self-satisfied way.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, porridge in the morning is what makes a boy grow up, didn't you know that? And unless I'm very badly mistaken, we're about to lose good old Jennie to the attentions of that wily rascal coming up to the door. I think I'll just skip down and warn him that she's such a good cook she can burn water." He laughed impishly, and started for the stairs.

The boy caught the edge of his coat, brows raised in trepidation. Mr. Currie didn't seem to realize the precariousness of his position within the household. "Oh, but you shouldn't pester Jane, she tells Father everything, and really, he doesn't like you overmuch, sir," he cast about for something to stall the tutor with. "Besides, you haven't yet told me what's so different between a violin and a viola."

The tutor cocked his head, and Sherlock seemed to see mild surprise glimmering behind his coarse, good-natured features. It was gone in an instant, however, for the tutor arranged his face into a remarkable semblance of gravity, and kneeled down to the boy's level. "Master Sherlock, it's not a question of the differences between a violin and a viola, it's a question of the differences between a viola and expensive carpeting. One takes off his boots before stepping on the carpeting."

* * *

Having softly opened the door, he stood upon the threshold, uncertain. It was a large room, and seemed so cheery: the honeyed pine of the floor captured sunlight in its waxed whorls, and the white walls gleamed. Yet, there was a sadness lingering, perhaps hiding itself in the lace that danced in the gentle breeze at the window. 

Her face was pale and slack, she appeared to be sleeping. Had her skin always contrasted so sharply against her dark hair, or was it a mere trick of the light, of the room? He was beginning to feel a dread of this room; it endeavoured to appear so innocent and sincere, yet that sadness (or was it something more malevolent?) was almost a tangible presence. Surely Charlotte would get well again if only she could leave this room, could get away from the presence that lurked in the lace. But Father and Dr. Hathaway concurred: Bed rest, filtered sun, air – but not at night! – and as much isolation from the affairs of the house as was possible.

Ought he approach the daybed and wake her? Jane was no doubt distracted by her beau, and Mauricette rarely left her kitchen fiefdom. Father was out. No one was paying enough attention to reprimand him. He did miss her so dreadfully; he even missed the grammar lessons. Mr. Currie was jovial enough, but he yearned to speak with her again of birds, and beetles, and to hear her voice gently intoning explanations of the solar system.

"It is a rare treat to see a friendly face at the door," She wasn't asleep after all, "Come in, Sherlock, tell me how your violin lessons are progressing."

He tried to match her weary smile, but his lip trembled, and his legs wanted to propel him to her bedside with a speed and necessity that was unseemly. He ignored the compulsion, instead taking neat, measured steps, sinking to his knees as he reached the head of the daybed. "I suppose my lessons are going rather well, but Mr. Currie has the strangest ideas."

"In precisely what manner, my dear?"

"Oh, well, he insists that I need to approach the violin like a set of sums. It's irritating, that's all. He is joining the clergy, he's said, but I think he would make a fine mathematician. But I think I'm learning, so that's all right, isn't it?"

"Why, of course. Someday soon you must come and play a piece or two for me."

"I'm really not very good at it, Charlotte. My playing would only make you sicker. That's what Jane says. I shouldn't even be here." He looked away, and let his eyes follow the knots in the floorboards.

"Oh, pet, you mustn't believe everything people tell you. Why, before Christopher Columbus sailed across the Atlantic, people thought the world was flat!" She heaved herself up, the colour draining from her face with the effort, but only smiled, and patted the sheets beside her, "Come, sit with me a while, and we'll talk of ships and sealing wax."

"Let us talk of Jane, instead. Mr. Currie thinks that the Millers' boy is courting her, and even means to marry her."

"Yes, that's true. She's already spoken to me of leaving."

"When? I mean, when will she leave?"

"A fortnight. Are you sorry to see her go?" The ghost of a knowing smile twitched across her lips.

"Not especially, to be truthful. But hasn't Dr. Hathaway said that you mustn't concern yourself with the household?" He ran his fingers over a bit of the bedspread, noting the subtle texture of the crochets, and pointedly not looking at the invalided woman.

"Indeed, although do you know, there are times I am certain I would feel better if not quite so isolated. You must sneak in to see me more often, darling."

Something eased inside his chest, but he couldn't resist the slightly plaintive and chastising tone, "But Charlotte, you've not really answered me. If Jane is leaving, and you're not well enough, who will attend to the household?"

She reached up to ruffle his hair, and then sank back into the pillow, as if merely sitting up was too wearying a task. A faint cough strangled her reply, and she pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips before responding. "It's a question I'd rather not answer, Sherlock, because I know you won't like the answer. Sarah Jacobson will be around to do the washing, and Father's going to London next week to advertise for another girl." That seemed all right, but Sherlock had the feeling there was worse to come. Her next words proved his suspicions: "And Father has sent for Uncle Lionel's widow. You do remember Aunt Gertrude?"

"Oh, why her?" He knew his voice sounded petulant.

"Well, I can hardly play hostess, dear. And one can't ask the hired help to make conversation in the parlour."

"Why can't Dr. Hathaway just make you well again? He made Mycroft better when he was laid up with a broken leg last fall. Why not you?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I wish he could, if only for your sake. But broken legs are easier to mend than broken lungs. Mycroft's leg healed itself; all Dr. Hathaway had to do was set the bone."

"What do you mean, broken lungs? Why can't he make you better?"

"Well, my lungs are not really broken, but it is similar. There's nothing Dr. Hathaway can do, because you can't put a cast on lungs, and expect them to heal; they're not like bones at all. And I didn't hurt them from playing rugby, the way Mycroft broke his leg. It is something like a cold that has settled into my lungs, and is breaking them ever so slowly."

"Charlotte?" His voice was very small.

"Yes, darling?"

He wouldn't ask, he couldn't know. To ask would be to give that ephemeral creature in the lace a presence, and it would loom up, foul and dark. Hungry. It was waiting now, eager. He was acutely aware of how insignificant his hands were, how small the fingernails on each. Charlotte reached up, lifting his chin so that his grey eyes met hers. "Sherlock?"

"Are you going to die?" Oh, but his throat struggled to close upon those words!

Something in her face seemed to break, and he could feel his eyes prickling with tears. She folded him into her arms, laying his dark head against her breast, and smoothing his hair as sobs racked his narrow shoulders. As his sobs subsided, he became aware of her faint crooning as she slowly rocked him; he sniffled, and buried his head against her more securely. "Poor dear child. I'll not die for a long time, Sherlock. Not until I'm old and grey, and you're all grown up, tall and handsome and strong."

"Promise?" he whispered, barely trusting his lips to form the word.

"Why yes, indeed. And even if something does happen to me, you must know that I'll never leave you. I'll always watch over you from heaven."

"But heaven's a long way away. I want you to watch over me from here. Promise you'll stay?"

"Oh, darling. Yes, yes, yes, with all my heart."

He wrapped his arms about her, and held on tightly, as though to keep her firmly within his grasp, should the angels come to spirit her away. All too soon, however, Richard Currie's jouncing step upon the stair signalled that the visit was at its necessary end, and she gave him one last hug as he loosed his arms.

He had almost gained the door, when a sudden thought struck him, and he returned to her bedside, chagrin etched across his narrow features. "Charlotte, I know you're not really my mother, but, sometimes when I say my prayers, I ask God to help my mother to get well. Do you suppose He knows who I mean? And do you suppose I'll be in trouble for lying?"

A strange expression passed over her face – half a smile, and half a sob, as tears leaked from her eyes. "Of course God won't mind; and He always knows what you mean, because He can see into our hearts, and finds the meanings there." She turned away from him for a moment, and a shiver seemed to run across her shoulders, but when she turned back, there was no trace of tears, and her smile was as kindly as always.

"You had better run along, my dear boy, Mr. Currie will be waiting for you. Tell me quickly, though, is he as knowledgeable in the sciences as in music? I wouldn't care to have your studies suffer; perhaps I should look into a proper tutor at last…" Her voice trailed off, and the child had the impression that she had been addressing herself for the most part. Finally she sighed, leaning back into the pillows, "You'd best go, Sherlock; although I've enjoyed your company immensely, I'll not see your schooling suffer on my account. Run along, and tell Mr. Currie to come by once he's set you some sums."

* * *

The wind was howling through the street with a vengeance, hurling stinging droplets of rain with an intense fury. It seemed that Nature endeavoured to mirror my mood, although it may have been more accurate to assume that the mood was a product of the weather, and my losses over the billiards table. I wondered, however, at the dark windows above me as I descended the cab, for it was unlike Holmes to become listless on such nights. Whereas other men, myself included, would consider it prudent to stoke up the fire and bask in its warmth with a book, or the latest magazine, Holmes became suffused with some manic energy. Could a case have drawn him away from his latest distillation? 

But no, he was surely at home, for I fancied I could hear faint strains of his eclectic playing. Likewise, I had been mistaken in assuming the windows dark, for although the gas was unlit, there was a subtle shimmer of firelight that played against the dark. Another cold gust of wind drew me away from my musings, for certainly I would not find any answers upon the street.

The timbre of the notes gave me pause as I ascended the stairs; so haunting were they that they seemed to echo the wailing of the wind. Or, conversely, perhaps the wind echoed the violin. This was not a cheerful sound, nor was it the screeching irritation that was Holmes' favourite method of criticizing the way a case was unfolding. No, this was something altogether different, and perhaps more disconcerting in that there was a purpose behind the playing: these were not random notes, but rather a wild and unstructured composition. Listening there on the stair, I began to feel as if my unannounced presence were violating some sacrosanct solitude.

Yet, I was loathe to go back into the street, so I hurried up the remaining stairs, and let myself into the sitting room, doffing coat and hat in a hurried fashion. "'Evening, Holmes. No chemicals tonight, I presume?"

He seemed almost to wake from some dream; his movements were lethargic as he set the violin aside and stretched his long legs towards the grate. "No, my dear Watson, I shall not try your estimable patience this evening. Well, not much at any rate, or so I should hope?"

"If you've an investigation, might I suggest waiting for the rain to stop, as it's rather redundant of me to suggest that you ought to have started earlier?"

"Ah no, old friend, things are slow enough at present to put me in mind of the cocaine, were it not for the promise of a visitor within the hour."

"A client?"

"An old friend, who prefers to meet with me in our sitting room, rather than some public house, being of a rather retiring disposition. I don't suppose it would inconvenience you too terribly much if I beg use of the room for this evening?"

I assured him that I intended to seek my bed early in any event, for the chill of the evening had set my war wound to aching. Yet, I was strangely stimulated by the notion that Sherlock Holmes was taking a private call. To my knowledge he had very few close friends; save myself, I should have set the number somewhere close to zero. This declaration, when coupled with behaviour so at odds with his normal attitude made a rather pretty mystery.

He invited me to smoke with him for a few minutes, and waxed rhetorical upon the philosophy embodied by Occam's razor, and of its particular applications to his own field of study. "Of course," he noted, "that is not to say that in all cases the simplest explanation must, by virtue of being merely the _simplest_, be the correct explanation. Recall the Boscombe affair – the most parsimonious explanation was that the lad murdered his father. However, that was not an explanation that encompassed _all_ the facts. Mark that, it is an important distinction. Occam's razor can only be properly applied once all the facts have been gathered and laid out.

"It is a complementary concept to my own crude philosophies, those being namely that when one eliminates those theories which do not adequately cover all the facts, whatever remains must be the truth. Yet, the tragic flaw in this methodology is that one can devise ever more pretentious theories, each of which satisfies the facts in an adequate fashion. Occam's razor is properly utilized at this extreme, rather than earlier. For instance, why should I assume that a man's wife has slipped him arsenic in order to run off with some dashing Russian prince, when it is just as likely that she merely wanted the insurance money? Occam's razor insists that we consider the least convoluted explanations first and foremost. And this, Watson old boy, is where I will bid you a good night, for I perceive that a four-wheeler has stopped at our humble address." He stood to twitch the curtains aside, and nodded to himself.

I rose to leave, but my feet carried me towards the overflowing bookcase. Perhaps a bit of reading would distract me from my curiosity. Holmes smiled wryly as I thumbed the spines, selecting at random. "_Tsk_, Watson, this will never do. I fear you won't sleep a wink, with this mystery hovering above your head. Do linger just a moment, and I shall introduce you to this kind old gentleman, whose pride I should sorely hurt if I offered him my assistance with those stairs." He cocked his head, listening, "Aha, here he comes. Mrs. Hudson has left the hall, so he no longer feels shame in leaning heavily upon his cane."

Holmes passed a hand across his hair, and smoothed out a faint wrinkle in his waistcoat, before opening the door to admit his guest. "Good evening, Reverend. Come in, and pray draw up a chair. Here, I will take your hat and cane. Come then, for it's a bitter night you've left, and the fire is particularly cheery."

For a clergyman, the Reverend had evidence of a surprisingly good humour etched into his face. At the corners of his eyes were a multitude of laugh lines, and while his sandy-red hair was shot through with enough silver to lend an entirely distinguished air, this was belied by the wild tangle of his beard. His eyes, as well, were sharp and twinkling, and when he clasped my hand, his grip was firm.

"Allow me to introduce you to my friend and associate, Dr. John Watson, whose chronicling activities have so delighted you of late," Holmes' tone was dry, "Watson, allow me to introduce the Reverend Richard Currie, who had the misfortune to know me in my youth."

"Not entirely a misfortune, Sherlock, for I note that you still play the violin. My many hours in the garret were not wasted after all, it seems."

The conversation was undoubtedly turning to exclude me, and I made my excuses, retiring to my room. Of course, the reader will again be forced to conclude that I am a hopeless busybody, but I must beg the excuse of old construction and thin walls, for despite the wind, Holmes' response carried into where I laid.

"Yes, I still play. I do not, however, read Tennyson anymore. Although I reclaimed the instrument, nothing in heaven or on Earth shall move me to read those verses again."


	3. Of Endings, to Journeys and Otherwise

**Chapter III: Of Endings, to Journeys and Otherwise**

_On either side the river lie  
Long fields of barley and of rye,  
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;  
And thro' the field the road runs by  
To many-tower'd Camelot_

23 August, 1857  
"The train, London"

My name is Lottie Jamieson, and this is the third diary that I shall write, but more importantly, the first I shall write as a lady. Perhaps I shall look back upon this birth-day departure from the home of my childhood with some remorse, but at present I am too filled with nervous anticipation for such thoughts to give me much pause. Mother does not think well of this notion of mine to step out into the world, yet she cannot reprimand me, for she did much the same, and, I suspect, much worse.

Oh, but the train rattles so! I fear my pen is fairly illegible! It simply will not do for a governess – A governess! – to have untidy handwriting. I perceive that I am utilising entirely too many exclamation points; I really must school myself against hysteria. Do men never experience nervousness or excitement to such a degree? I find such a notion difficult to fathom.

This business of men and women being so different from each other is madness, I am sure. It seems as far-fetched as what passed for scientific truth in bygone years – that a woman was but a man with organs up inside her, and that she mustn't jump, or ride horses, else they should fall and she would become a man! Oh, how horrid, I should not be thinking of such things, they are coarse tales to be whispered amongst maids while folding linens. Come now, Lottie, you really must comport yourself with more dignity, even when in the presence of a mere pen. Who knows, Mrs. Holmes may pry into my things, and then I should find myself riding this train in the opposite direction.

Well, I am out of London, now, and the line seems smoother, or perhaps I've grown accustomed to it. It is quite late in the afternoon, and the sun is glorious away from the London factories. My, but the country is lovely, wee cottages tucked back amongst apple trees. It is so marvellously clean here! I do so hope that there is a touch of wildness about the house. It would be so nice to wander the grounds like a gentleman naturalist, intent upon the Linnaean classification of everything that I should set eye upon. How I wish that I had been more fortunate in my gender; such indulgences are simply not ladylike. I mustn't fall into the trap of believing my mother's good fortune to be the norm.

Eliza has heard of the Holmes family, of course. I will miss her companionship, but secretly, I believe I am glad to be shut of her, for she is such a gossip that I never know what she may repeat to another of her friends. Nevertheless, it is nice to know something of the situation, for I feel as though I am on more even ground. The master of the house, Mr. Robert Holmes, I have already met, for it was he who interviewed me for the position I now hold. He is a great bear of a man, very tall, and very broad across the shoulders. His features are somewhat coarse, and would almost certainly look horrid on a man of lesser dimensions. Yet, his bearing, stature, and the crisp cut of his suit are enough to pull a weaker woman's heartstrings. He is really quite handsome.

As to his occupation, Eliza has furnished some details of which I was unaware. Quite apart from being the retiring country squire with an invested inheritance, Mr. Holmes is in fact a somewhat ruthless shipping magnate. In addition, Eliza is of the opinion that he holds some interests in the California goldfields. I suspect that she is better informed in business matters than the brother who stands to inherit chairmanship of the family enterprises. Perhaps I have but been surrounded by exemplary specimens of feminine intelligence, but I cannot help but think that women are as equally intelligent as men (if not more so!). But enough of this prevarication; I was writing of my employers.

Mrs. Holmes is another matter entirely. I have not met her, and thus ought to reserve my comments for a later date, so I shall detail just a brief sketch of some of the things Eliza has told me. Apparently, the woman is a true beauty; "entirely stunning" was Eliza's expression. I understand that her heritage is French, but that her English is impeccable. Her Christian name is Estelle, neé Noiry, originally. Eliza referred to the woman as "the Black Widow of Nice": Whether or not there is any truth to rumours, she has had two previous marriages, both of which have increased her social standing, and, no doubt, fiscal independence. The latter was an English marriage; I seem to recall reading of it in the papers, or perhaps it was something Eliza spoke to me of… A Sir Charles Mycroft, if memory serves.

To think I only meant to jot a sentence or two, and I have now filled an entire paragraph with idle gossip. I shall set aside my pen in regards to Mrs. Holmes until I have formed my own opinions. Indeed, I believe I shall set aside my pen entirely, for I perceive that the train is slowing. Oh, I do hope that this child is well-behaved! Adieu, adieu, I shall write more tonight.

In nervous haste,  
L.J.

23 August, 1857  
"the Manor on Aspen Hill"

Is that not just a perfectly lovely name? The house and grounds match it, although I confess my disappointment that few enough of the trees have survived in the immediate vicinity. Nevertheless, there is a charming mere a couple of miles to the south, and it glimmers so pleasantly from my window. Furthermore, the brook that feeds it winds through the wooded valley on the east skirts of Aspen Hill. I shall certainly make haste to indulge in a bit of exploration; the countryside here is absolutely breathtaking.

As can be inferred from the fact that I can see the mere from where I sit writing this, I have been installed within a south-facing garret. It is quite roomy, and pleasant, and I believe that I shall come to love it. The room opposite my own is the nursery, of course, and I shall be responsible for tending to any nocturnal needs of the child. What a cruel thing a nursery is, though! To so isolate a child from his parents and the affairs of the house is, in my consideration, hardly humane. I suppose I shall make an excellent pauper, for I believe I would want to raise my children myself, rather than entrust such a task to a governess. Oh, how Father would shake his head at me! I must remember to write a jolly long letter to Mother and him, so that they can be properly ashamed of me.

I am indeed in a mirthful mood tonight. All of my anxiety has quite disappeared. Tomorrow morning I shall be a bundle of nerves again, but for now there is the promise of blissful sleep stretching out before me.

I have made the acquaintance of young Master Mycroft. He is a little over five years in age, but I should have guessed that he was a bit older than that, for he is very tall. He is thickset, and I suspect, somewhat bookish, for there is an evident glimmer of intelligence in his eyes. He is, however, standoff-ish, and would not shake my hand when we were introduced. I harbour some reservations as to my new position. However, should I break through his initial dislike, I am certain that I would find a responsive and bright pupil before me. I shall have to think of some way in which to engage his attention. His mother informs me that the child has a natural affinity for numbers, but I, unfortunately, do not. Perhaps he would be keen to share in some of my naturalist ambitions.

In any event, I have mentioned Estelle Holmes. It is true, she is indeed a great beauty. Her complexion, while not quite sallow, is indeed very pale, and seems more so due to her dark, lustrous hair. She is very slim, and willowy in her grace. Her features are angular and almost too strong for a woman, but they suit her well. Her most startling attribute is her eyes, which are of the palest, clearest grey. It is quite disconcerting to meet those eyes for the first time – I had the distinct impression that she could read my mind!

Oh my, but I am given to flights of fancy. I think it is the moon, for I have been watching it rise. It is not full yet, but quite splendid despite that. It is a beautiful thing, how clear the air is here. I can see all the stars spread across the sky; there is not a cloud in sight. Alpha Centauri seems close enough to touch; if I should just reach up my hand, I am certain that I could pluck it from the sky. I believe I shall enjoy my time here.

Contentedly,  
Lottie

* * *

"Mr. Currie. Please, do come in. I must apologise for the state in which you find me, but in the same breath, confess that I am quite unable at present to rectify the situation." She turned aside to hide a grimace as her chest heaved with repressed coughs. "I wanted to discuss young Sherlock's continuing education with you." 

"Madame, please, if this is to be another attempt to increase my wages, you need not waste your breath, I am perfectly content to oversee his other lessons, in addition to those on the violin."

"It was to be a temporary arrangement at most, Mr. Currie. I did not foresee the possibility that I would become unable to perform the task myself."

"I am sorry, is this notice that my work with the boy is unsatisfactory?"

She made to answer, but doubled against a cough instead. Currie made a slight move to her side, and then hesitated, propriety warring against conscience. His good nature won out in the end, as her body was wracked by coughs, and he stooped to grasp her shoulders. From that nearer vantage, he could clearly see the ravages that the disease had wrought upon the woman: her eyes were sunken, her skin slack, her fine hair dull and roughened. Her shoulders felt like mere bones beneath his fingers, and as she gasped for air, he fancied he could see her skull grinning beneath her sharpened features. The differences in their respective ages was far less than that between herself and her husband, yet he found himself deferring to her as he would to a much older woman. Perhaps it was merely that the illness had stolen away so much of her youth...

"Your question?" Her voice, slightly imperious once again, startled him out of his discomfited musings. Her breathing had eased, and she slumped back against the brocaded cushions.

"I don't recall…" He wondered if his face were as red as it felt. "Oh, as to my acting as the boy's tutor during your convalescence –"

"You are doing an exemplary job, and let there be no smokescreen between us, I am not convalescing." He watched her eyes drift closed, and had the distinct impression that she was concentrating on breathing. Several moments passed, and as he began to feel uncomfortable, she spoke again, "Sherlock is an intelligent, thoughtful child, and I would not see his potential neglected."

"I assure you, madame, I have no thought of doing so."

"I meant inadvertently. Children require some element of constancy in their existences; too much stimulation will ruin them as surely as too little. I am asking, Mr. Currie, that you take over the entirety of his lessons, and more so that you remain in my employ in that capacity for at least another year."

"I had plans of studying in the fall."

"I am aware that this is an imposition upon you, and as such I will indeed increase your wages. Furthermore, in the event of my death, your contract is guaranteed in my will, in addition to the option of completing his early education." Her voice had a note of flat finality to it.

"Madame, I—"

"Mr. Currie, please understand," she softened her tone, and seemed somehow more diminished, "He is not my own child, but I love him as if he were. He is dear to me, dearer than you could ever know; he is my son in every way save right of parentage. You cannot know, Mr. Currie, the cruel jest that God plays upon a woman, to bind her by her very nature to a role in which her greatest hope is to be a mother, and then rob her of even that ability. The child's innocent nature, that is my salvation, the fulfillment of his potential my only desire. As any mother might, I want what is best for him. If you will not stay on, then I must ask you to leave, before he develops too much of an emotional attachment to you. It will not do for him to suffer too many losses at once."

"You will regain your health, Mrs. Holmes, I am certain of it. Do not speak in this fashion."

"God has granted me no boons yet in my life, Mr. Currie. I will expect no miracles."

"Then allow me to pray for you."

"I would prefer for you to direct your attentions to tutoring the boy; there is, at least, a world of hope and opportunity for him."

"I shall, and I will stay on, but on one condition only."

"And that is to be?"

"That you remain a part of the boy's existence, until the end, should it come."

"The end always comes, Mr. Currie, but I should like nothing better than that." Her voice was very soft, and she let the silence surge in upon the room. He hesitated, unsure as to whether the interview had reached its conclusion, and indecisive as to what parting remarks, if any, were required of him. Eventually, however, she re-opened her eyes, and cast a curious orb upon him. "You are going into the clergy, are you not, Mr. Currie?"

He nodded his affirmative.

"How it must scandalize you, the manner in which I speak of our Lord."

* * *

The sky beyond my windowpane was grey when I woke, but by the time I had dressed and attended to my toiletries, the sun was clearing away the thick London fog, and it promised to be cheerful weather. 

I had resumed my rooms in Baker Street only temporarily, my wife being away for a fortnight, but the arrangement was apparently a perfectly comfortable one for Sherlock Holmes. In a man of such idiosyncratic nature, I would normally have expected any deviation from the norm to be a profound disruption, and had therefore harboured reservations as to transient residence upon the first occasion. By this time, however, I had developed a blasé attitude perhaps not unlike his own, and was therefore not surprised that he took no pains to put on airs.

For put on airs he most resolutely refused to do, and I found him that morning in much the same fashion as I had upon entering the rooms the evening before. That he had not slept was apparent. His clothing was dishevelled, and his visage haggard. His greeting was listless enough to cause me to suspect that his visitor had not been sufficiently interesting to keep him from the drug. This supposition, however, was belied by the great quantity of cigarette butts in the sugar bowl, and the dense haze of pipe smoke that brought tears to my eyes as I entered the room. He had been deep in the clutches of his mind, rather than the cocaine.

Still, my indignation at the toxic atmosphere required expression, "Really, my dear fellow, this is quite intolerable! Holmes, you and your pipe are enough to give a man indigestion before he's even broken his fast." The biting breeze that swept into the room as I opened the window roused him where my comments did not, and he smiled ruefully, before stretching his long legs.

He attacked his breakfast with a vigour, and it seemed to me that the strange mood that had held him in its thrall the evening before had entirely fallen away. "Have you a new case, then?"

"No, but I am in hopes, and as the paper has arrived, we shall soon see if the agony column justifies those hopes. My thanks, Mrs. Hudson." The much-tried woman deposited the stack of dailies in his eager hands, surveying his latest affront on her coffee service with remorse.

He spent the next hour in study, and I knew that he would answer no questions until he had assessed the day's offerings. Finally, he threw the last paper aside, and puffed at his pipe industriously. "Well, the day is not overwhelmingly fraught with possibilities, Watson, but I think I shall look into this little forgery problem that the Yard is having. Gregson is on the case. I feel as though I really must give the fellow some aid, lest he accuse me of favouritism in regards to our friend Lestrade." His voice held a good deal of mirth in it; he was in good spirits. Perhaps my questions would not be taken amiss.

"This Reverend Currie who came by last night, he taught you the violin?"

"Amongst many other things." He drew on his pipe in silence for a few moments, obviously debating whether or not to satisfy my curiosity. "His primary employment was as a music tutor. He was to give me rudimentary instruction in the violin. Due to several unfortunate circumstances that befell the household, he stayed on to tutor me in the customary academic subjects. Of course, religion has blinded him to some of the more important aspects of biology and natural history, but we must all have our faults."

"He must be quite an accomplished musician."

"Hardly. But proficient enough to teach the basics, I daresay. No, I refined my abilities later, in France."

"You studied with some composer, no doubt?"

He laughed, and shook his head at me, "My dear Watson, you overestimate my abilities. Furthermore, it is not necessary for one to gain talent from another, only technique. In that respect, one need not learn from the great masters, for that select group contains those who are successful in marrying instinctive talent with technicality. No, for anyone with an iota of instinct, all that is required is a tutor well versed in the mechanics of the instrument."

"Well, tell me of it, then." Here we began to tread on dangerous ground, for Holmes had never been so open in regards to his past before.

"I learned the nuances of technique from my mother's younger sister, at whose home I stayed for a time."

"Sherlock Holmes! Do you mean to tell me that you've learned something from a woman?" I could not help the loud guffaw of laughter that erupted from me. Holmes was less than amused, and the introspection that fleeted across his features caused me to sober. In his grey eyes I could have sworn there were shades of loathing and revulsion. Had I, then, insulted him so deeply as to ruin our friendship?

Finally, he sighed, and tapped the ashes from his pipe before refilling it. "Yes, Watson, there are things I've learned from a woman. Pray, do not feel so uncomfortable, my irritation is not directed at you."

"I am sorry, though. It wasn't a particularly tactful thing for me to say —"

"Never mind. The past is dead, as are most of the players that strode its stage. Her name was Vivienne Noiry when I first met her; she married shortly thereafter; a gentleman by the name of Pierre-Yves Bellanger. She harboured hopes of seeing me in concert halls one day."

"She is dead, you say?"

He gave me a wry smile that seemed entirely out of place, given the subject. "Oh yes. Do you know, Watson, that the Noiry women have a most unique method of suicide? They find it fashionable to corset themselves to death. In this case, it really was the best thing for her."


	4. Of Fictions, in Storybooks and Otherwise

**Chapter IV: Of Fictions, in Storybooks and Otherwise**

"_Thus disbelief crept over me at a very slow rate, but was at last complete. The rate was so slow that I felt no distress, and have never since doubted for a single second that my conclusion was correct." – Charles Darwin, in his Autobiography_

The dynamics of the countryside's population changed, as summer enveloped the hills. Jane Thatcher left servitude at Aspen Hill for matrimony and the dingy, bustling streets of London. Colonel Penn was recalled to Bombay and the post-boy brought two letters from him, one of which contained an ivory-handled pocket knife that was given to Mycroft. And on one bright morning, a tight-lipped, angular woman descended from a smart coach, the sunlight catching glints of silver in her hair, and deepening the wrinkles at the corners of her pursed lips. Within a week, she came to be known to the neighbours as The Widow Holmes. (It was unthinkable that such a person could be named anything as ordinary and unassuming as Gertrude, as Rachel Miller remarked to Sarah Jacobson one afternoon when hanging the laundry). Mrs. Penn, having apparently been freed of wifely obligations, came round to the manor at least twice a week, ostensibly to visit the lady of the house, but more often than not taking tea in the conservatory with The Widow and Mr Robert Holmes, both of whom professed to enjoy her company. This seemed rather odd on The Widow's part, at least, and Rachel Miller shared a raised eyebrow with Sarah Jacobson over the situation.

In fact, the only thing that seemed not to have changed since spring was the cheerful room with gleaming walls, and honeyed pine. The lace still danced in a breeze at the window, and the pale lady still reclined upon the daybed. Something had changed, however, although a casual visitor could be forgiven for not noticing it – it was such a little thing, after all.

Sherlock himself failed to notice it for a very long time.

It was a peculiar sort of day, when he did finally take note of the change. He was seated upon the foot of the daybed, alternately stealing glances at Charlotte's face, which was bright with laughter, and watching the spectacle that was Mr. Currie's version of reading. His sister, who was employed at typesetting until her marriage in New York later that summer, had sent up a galley proof of a new children's book, still bereft of illustrations. The acerbic note enclosed indicated that Miss Currie thought such charming drivel would suit her brother's intellect very well. Apparently it had done, for Currie had been taken to task by the master of the house for reading by gaslight into all hours of the night.

The setting of the day itself was not peculiar; Mr. Currie had lately insisted that Charlotte join them in their literary readings, and so it was that all three could often be found in each other's company. Mr. Currie had even persuaded Jane, before she left, to assist him in bringing up one of the comfortable chairs from the library, and it was from this not-quite-ostentatious throne that he impersonated a recalcitrant caterpillar drawing upon an Indian hookah, to the amusement of his audience. No, the peculiarity was, in fact, that the sheer amount of laughter and good cheer had dislodged the sadness that had (perhaps) been living behind the lace at the window. Sherlock rather suspected that it had not gone far – a likely new hiding place was beneath one of the elaborate hats that The Widow favoured.

Rachel Miller and Sarah Jacobson might have raised eyebrows at the knowledge that The Widow favoured hats, as well as Mrs. Penn. They would have been reassured, however, to find that there was little else she was reasonably tolerant of. Certainly, her tolerance did not extend to rambunctious laughter issuing from her sister-in-law's sickroom.

An incredulous "What on earth?" issued from the threshold, and Sherlock suddenly found it odd that he should be doubled with laughter. Certainly The Widow thought so: her entire face seemed a sneer, and her arms were akimbo at her hips. Her attention, however, was not focussed upon him.

Apparently there were more serious crimes at hand than the usual transgressions of un-tucked shirts, and stained trouser-knees, for The Widow was advancing upon the daybed, her narrowed eyes fixing upon Charlotte's face. "How utterly deplorable, Miss Jamieson."

"Mrs. Holmes, if you will. It has been my rightful title for six years, and I beg of you to acknowledge it."

"Rightful?" The Widow inhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring, "If I were you'd I'd not make the mistake of thinking everyone blind to your past! A reformed harlot is still a sinner in the eyes of God. Robert is a fool to let his son be tainted by the likes of you! A good job it will be once you're six feet beneath the pines."

"Madam, how dare you take such a tone?" The book fell from his lap as Mr Currie rose, his hands clenched at his sides, and a look of fury etched across his features.

"And you, Richard Currie! Keep shut, or I shall have some words with the fine gentlemen of Cambridge. I know your part in things only too well! A tutor and a scholar? Nay, a scoundrel and the devil himself, quoting Scripture to further his own ends. Give me that!" She gestured imperiously at the fallen book, and Mr Currie bent to retrieve it, his lips thin and white. She snatched it from his hand. "There's a nice blaze in the kitchen oven, and we shall see the last of this nonsense. I'll not see the Holmes name dragged through Eliza Amherst's gossip mill any more than it already has been!" The Widow Holmes turned smartly about on one heel, and they sat in silence as the measured clicking of her steps descended the stair.

Charlotte's face was slack and pale again, and the bright pinpoints of laughter had faded from her eyes. She turned to look at the tutor, and something passed unspoken between them. Sherlock noted the interaction, and stood abruptly. Somehow, this was all Mr Currie's fault: Charlotte had been well until he'd arrived, and Aunt Gertrude hadn't been here, to hurt Charlotte so with her cutting tongue.

Mr Currie reached out to lay a hand upon the boy's shoulder, and said in a kindly tone, "Don't worry, Master Sherlock. I shall set down a few words to Annie; I've no doubt she can find another copy of the book."

Sherlock shrugged off his hand, and turned to leave. "I don't care. It was a silly story, anyway." His voice sounded very flat to his own ears, and there was a curious tightness when he inhaled. Odd, that. He contemplated the matter for a long time, as his feet carried him down the stairs, onto the lane, and along the path to the mere.

He felt a lone tear slip down his face as he watched the water striders dancing along the surface of the water. Strange, how they managed to keep from sinking, with only those six spindly legs between them and drowning. Perhaps the other two tears were like that – just one of Nature's oddities. After all, he wasn't _crying_. There was just that tightness, and an occasional teardrop falling into the still water where it would make little ripples. Why didn't the ripples upset the water striders? Surely they could only balance on the water when it was calm?

"Some people call them Jesus bugs. Because they walk on water." Mr Currie had followed him, and kneeled by his side in the sedges.

"And that's just a silly story, too. That whole book." The savagery in Sherlock's voice caused Mr Currie's eyebrows to rise.

"I don't think so," the tutor responded mildly, plucking one of the sedge blades, and teasing a nearby strider with it. "What makes you say that?"

"You're the one who talks of logic!"

"Logic has little to do with faith, child, but what do you mean?"

"Faith! What's the point in believing in something if it's not true? What are the gates of heaven made out of, Mr Currie?"

"The gates of heaven?" The tutor frowned, and ran a hand through his sandy hair. "In Revelations, it is said that each of the twelve gates is made of pearl."

"No, it says that each is made of a single pearl. A single pearl 144 cubits high."

"I'm sorry, Master Sherlock, but I fail to see your argument." Currie had fixed him with a perplexed gaze.

"A pearl has to come from an oyster, does it not? The pearls on Charlotte's earrings come from an oyster the size of a dinner plate. I should like to know just how large an oyster would have to be to have a sixty-meter pearl inside of it. Why, just twelve of them alone would take over all the oceans!"

"Perhaps God created the gates himself."

"And perhaps there are pixies living beneath the toadstools in the woods. It's just a story, and not a very good one, either." He looked away as the expression on the tutor's face grew stern.

"You mustn't speak like this, Master Sherlock. You must always keep faith in the divine presence of our Lord. He is all-seeing, all-knowing, and all-powerful, and if you lose your faith, you will be barred from Heaven for all time."

The child's face crumpled, and now he was certainly crying. "I don't care! And I don't care what you say; it's all a lie anyway! I've prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and God never answers my prayers. I just want Charlotte to get better. Oh, why can't she be well again?"

* * *

19 October, 1857  
"Beneath the bridge" 

Well! I have had an interesting day, to say the very least. It is a strange thing for a young lady to find herself tucked up beneath a bridge, even if the arched stonework is quite charming, and the seating relatively dry. I discovered this marvellous little hide-away quite by chance last month. Young Master Mycroft had finally condescended to join me in a short walk, but did not think much of my antics when it chanced upon me that chasing after a toad was quite the thing to do. I swear the child was born thirty years old!

In any event, this was a lucky discovery, and I've made use of it several times now, although I think these are the most desperate circumstances I've encountered. As I've mentioned, it is dry, and in places the pilings have shifted so as to make a rude sort of bench, upon which cushions of moss are growing. There are high willows just along the bank of the brook here, and they hide the base of the bridge most satisfactorily. It is very cozy, but I do not think that I should much enjoy being here once the sun sets, as it is now threatening to do.

Oh, but I am a coward! There, I admit it freely.

I must set this down, I simply must, yet my heart is all a-flutter. Mrs. Holmes is in such a temper! I've little doubt that I'll be packing my case this evening, once I find the courage to go back up the Hill.

I fear this is disjointed. Here, then, is just the barest sketch of the incidents leading up to my current mortification. It has been my custom to go for a stroll about the grounds in the late afternoon. Occasionally, Master Mycroft demands my attention at this time, and so I postpone my walk for the early evening. About a month ago, Mr Holmes chanced upon me during one of my evening sojourns, and spoke quite harshly against my sauntering about unaccompanied. Since then, he seems to pay special attention to my habits, and has insisted upon accompanying me when I head out for an evening ramble.

Of course, this is all quite innocent, and it seemed a very gentlemanly thing for him to do. I was properly grateful for his time, but lately things have taken a queer turn. For the past week, all of my walks have, of a necessity, been in the evening, and he has insisted that I take his arm. This afternoon, I was able to return to my usual schedule, but still he accompanied me, once again insisting that we walk intimately, in the fashion I have just described. In time, we found ourselves standing upon the north footbridge, which is accessed by a rather rough trail, and so normally only accessible by daylight, for fear of twisting an ankle in the dusk. The air was very still, and it seemed almost dream-like when he lifted my hand to his lips. Quite suddenly, there was a clatter of stones. To the east of Aspen Hill, on the other side of the woods, there lives a young military man by the name of Penn, and I've little doubt that it was his flaxen-haired bride who had chanced upon the scene, although I caught no more than a glimpse of petticoats as she fled along the path opposite.

I believe I must have fairly fled as well, for I was quite out of breath by the time I reached the Manor. I snuck in through the servants' door at the back of the kitchen, and thankfully neither Jane nor Mauricette was there to notice my entrance. I hurried up the stairs as quietly as I could, and curled in the window-seat to ponder this latest turn of events.

It was as I was descending to supper that I heard Mrs Holmes' venomous, throaty cries of rage. Her normally impeccable English had quite deteriorated; in her anger her French heritage was manifest. "I refuse to keep that slovenly prostitute in my home!" She cried out.

Colonel Penn's bride had been by to tell the tale, it seems.

And so the dying sun finds me shivering beneath a bridge. Father will be so terribly disappointed in me. Oh! What if I am cast out entirely?

Terribly worried,  
L.J.

20 October, 1857  
"The south garret"

I feel an utter fool.

Suffice to say that Mrs Holmes is a woman whose ire is easily raised, and who is not exceptionally fond of her sister. It was this individual who was the subject of her harsh words yesterday afternoon, but in spite of her temper, Mr Holmes is adamant that Miss Vivienne Noiry will be joining our household for the Christmas season.

I confess myself entirely relieved. Yet, I cannot help but be just a bit unsettled: what on Earth _did_ happen at the footbridge? Perhaps it is best for me to discontinue my strolls; the air has turned chill in any event.

I should love to write more about Miss Vivienne, for Jane has been a veritable treasure-trove of information upon that topic, but I must see to teaching Master Mycroft the intricacies of long division. How I abhor long division! Heavens preserve, don't let me make a mistake for him to correct – Nature insists that it ought to be the other way around.

In fear of her charge,  
Lottie

* * *

Such a bitter remark, even when regarding the fairer sex, was uncharacteristic of Holmes, despite his opinions upon feminine nature. I need not detail my thoughts upon the matter, other than to say that it unsettled me, and cast a shadow across my thoughts, despite the fact that my companion shortly returned to his earlier energy. However, upon discovering my forgotten fork suspended in midair above a solitary luncheon, I resolved to think no more upon the subject, and was quite successful in putting the matter from my mind. Indeed, I had almost forgotten my friend's strange mood, and the visitor that had sparked it, when a note arrived from the Reverend. 

The intervening casework had been dull; the forgery case was the highlight of the summer, and only so because it allowed the animosity between our friends Gregson and Lestrade to reach new heights. Holmes' assistance, when offered to the former had been declined most abruptly. Soon, however, Gregson had gotten himself hopelessly tangled, and so the Yard had set Lestrade to the task and this worthy promptly beat a path to our door. The case was concluded within the week, and although my friend received no official thanks for his participation, we were both of us treated to an extremely entertaining battle between Scotland Yard's prize prima donnas. To my knowledge, neither one is yet speaking to the other. That my friend was given to gentle chiding to the effect that pride goeth before a fall cannot have helped the situation much.

There were a few foreign cases, but I did not attend the affair surrounding the theft of the Corsican artefacts, nor was I present in Marrakech when my friend investigated the unusual circumstances that marked the death of Sir Arthur Stanley's young son, of which much was made in the papers.

I've noted that things had been very peaceful on home soil, and so it was that Reverend Currie's hasty note found us unengaged and inclined towards laziness, as the soft light of autumn played across the sitting room. I had spent some time that morning chivvying Holmes into attending to his correspondence, and he oscillated between his pipe, the murky substance bubbling away in the condensing bulb, and the stack of letters that had become too thick to affix to the mantle. I myself was entrenched within a comfortable chair, and idly flipping through a volume of Hooker's _Flora of British India_ that had somehow come to rest upon the shelves. My eyes had just begun to droop when Holmes abruptly stood from his desk, and began to pace about the room, brow creased, and balled fists firmly shoved into the depths of his pockets.

"Something of interest, then?"

"I should say so!" He swept a letter from the desk, and presented it for my perusal. It ran in this way:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I trust that you have been well since I spoke with you last. Do you recall that upon parting I invited you to come down to the coast? Your response was that I must first present a case, before you even considered the offer. Here, then, is your mystery, and much luck may you have with it, for the local constabulary is quite lost, and no little horrified. I am uncertain whether the matter has reached the London papers, but the gruesome death of Miss Cecilia Worthington has been the sole topic of conversation since the beginning of the week here in Dorset._

_On the surface of the matter, it appears rather simple. Miss Worthington apparently decided to take an evening stroll down a lane that connected her uncle's property to that of a Mr. James Hastings, who is a retired barrister. Hastings is, from my dealings with him, a shy and retiring gentleman, who gave up his profession early on account of a weak heart. Nevertheless, it seems there are darker shades to his character, for it transpires that he keeps two very vicious hounds which are released to patrol the property after dark._

_It was one of these hounds, or perhaps both, that Miss Worthington encountered on the evening of the 23rd. Her savaged body was discovered the next morning by one of the local dairy lads. At first, the constabulary was inclined to ignore the possibility of murder, but the late Miss Worthington's uncle, Edward Ross, has agitated that he knew of no reason that his niece should have been out that evening, and further that she was quite aware of the existence and habits of the dogs. Therefore, he proposes that Hastings must have lured the young lady out under pretences that the dogs had not been released._

_So there is your mystery, my dear boy. Send word if you intend to come down, and I shall meet you at the station._

_With best regards,  
Rev. Richard Currie_

As I was reading this missive, Holmes had summoned up the page, and the boy was dispatched in all haste to the telegraph office with the curt question, "IS THE BODY STILL AVAILABLE QUERY WILL BE DOWN BY EVENING TRAIN STOP – SH". He gave an imperious command for Mrs. Hudson to rummage together an early supper, and I left him engaged in haphazardly packing his suitcases.

Once again, I found the neighbouring physician most obliging and Mary almost as much, although she expressed her opinion that it was a fine thing indeed for me to be taking a holiday to the coast without her. But she smiled when she said it, and assisted me in packing my bags. My old army revolver was duly removed from the desk in my study, and I retrieved the journal and writing tablet that so often accompanied me upon these pursuits. If I was to be later accused of sensationalist biography, I at least intended to have good notes from which to work.

In short order then, I was again rattling along in a cab, whose driver had been encouraged by way of an extra sovereign to exceed the normal pace. And so it was that I found myself once more at Baker Street, arriving just as Mrs Hudson was taking up a hearty tray. Holmes' bags were stacked at the door, and he was surrounded by a wild array of newspapers, which he was industriously chopping clippings out of. A number of his indexes had been pulled from their shelves, and were heaped about upon the floor, in a fashion that appeared to me to be random, but which must have made more sense to him.

The reply telegram had come while I was out, and Holmes directed my attention toward the slip of paper upon the sideboard. The reverend had responded, "BODY ON ICE STOP TO BE PREPARED IN MORNING STOP CORONER AGREES YOU MAY VIEW IT STOP – RC"

We settled at the table for a quick supper, as the page was sent out to bring 'round a cab. I attempted to question my companion as to what details, if any, he had garnered from the papers, but he waved me off, and suggested I concentrate on the plate before me. This was good advice, for a London growler had soon drawn up, and we were off into the thick fog that had rolled in from the east docks.


	5. Of Performers, Musicians and Otherwise

**Chapter V: Of Performers, Musicians and Otherwise**

_And moving thro' a mirror clear  
That hangs before her all the year,  
Shadows of the world appear.  
There she sees the highway near  
Winding down to Camelot:_

27 November, 1857  
"the south garret"

Miss Vivienne has arrived. Mrs Holmes has taken to her bed with the complaint of a headache, and so I was able to make the young lady's acquaintance rather sooner than I had anticipated. She, Miss Vivienne, that is to say, is very like her elder sister, save that her eyes are hazel, instead of the clear grey that makes Mrs Holmes' gaze so utterly compelling. She does, however, differ from the lady of the house in another, more profound respect. She is extremely talkative and animated -- an entirely vivacious creature, to be certain.

Mrs Holmes has always held herself somewhat aloof in my company, but Miss Vivienne shows no such restraints. This afternoon, she requested my assistance in laying out her things in the guest boudoir (she would not trust Jane to handle her combs or fragrances, and really, I can see her point). We chatted amiably of little things, such as the new fashions in steel corsets (Miss Vivienne is of the opinion that these are inferior to those of good whalebone, of which I noted she has several). She really has the most intriguing manner of speaking. Every syllable is enunciated with passion, and her hands flutter about in emphasis. I was quite certain that the expression of some profound opinion would cause her to fling one marvellous hand right across the neat row of perfumes, and send the whole lot into a cascade of shattering crystal. By some grace of God, this event did not transpire, but she has managed to quite startle me in another fashion. As I rose to leave she fairly leapt up to lay a hand upon my arm. She looked up at me through those impossibly long lashes, and pronounced with the utmost of certainty that she was positive we would be the very best of friends, and that she was ever so pleased to have made my acquaintance.

I am not accustomed to such an effusive nature, and I can only hope that she did not take my stammering personally. I do not mean to say that my life and upbringing have had elements of detachment, but Mother and Father have always comported themselves with dignity, despite their closeness. As to my friends, I can really only justify Eliza with that title, and she is a bit cold and haughty. This whirlwind of taffeta silk is quite beyond my ken.

I see that I've mentioned Eliza again! Her very name awakens a spirit of gossip-y deviltry in my mind, and so I shall jot just a few things about Miss Vivienne that I have had from Jane. I think, that were I not compelled to keep a level of social distance from this latter, we should have made fairly good friends. Jane has a bright, unassuming face, and is pragmatic in her ways, but she is certainly not above a bit of mischief. I am almost positive that she has taken to re-arranging Mauricette's spice racks when the cook has chided her unfairly. It is a shame that she considers me to be, in her words, "an uppity snip of a girl, with more books than common sense", although it is just possible that her assertions are not without merit. On occasion, however, I have managed to engage her in conversation, and she has furnished the following details about Miss Vivienne.

The particular Noiry line that Miss Vivienne and her estimable sister hail from is not terribly distinguished, having a history in the French military, law-making, and recently some political concerns in Quebec. On their maternal side, however, the sisters are descended from the Vernet family, which has produced a number of very fine artists, including the military painter Emile-Jean Horace Vernet, whose portrait of Napoleon is so familiar to the public.

This familial artistry has manifested in both ladies as musical talent, although Mrs Holmes is occasionally also given to painting images of the blooms from her conservatory, emulating the Transcendentalist method of rendering the subjects. Nevertheless, her true talent is apparent when she is seated before the piano. She is quite marvellous, really, as her long fingers skim the ivory keys, and her brow furrows ever so faintly in response to the music. She is all grace, and masterful beauty at these times, and I find myself a bit in awe of her.

Miss Vivienne, as I have mentioned, is also a musician, and has achieved no little acclaim in France as a violinist of some accomplishment. Several venues in Paris have hosted her performances already. Most recently, however, it seems that she took up with one of the more outré of Paris' Shakespearean companies as an actress. I shall be courteous and say that this is really _not_ _done_ by a lady of society, especially considering the age of the individual in question (she is in fact a year younger than I). Needless to say, she was recalled to Nice as soon as she was discovered. Yet, and this, it appears, is what vexes the lady of the house most, Miss Vivienne's standing amongst the avant-garde of society has not diminished in the least. She is popular, and much in demand as a guest at the most fashionable of parties and soirees.

Certainly, I have had opportunity to observe the manner in which she ingratiates herself, if the display in the boudoir earlier was any indication. Yet, I find it difficult to see her as anything other than a lively, if somewhat shallow, young lady. I think that I shall put Mrs Holmes' harsh words and sour attitude from my mind, and form my own opinions as to Miss Vivienne.

Young Master Mycroft has indicated a desire to go ice-skating upon the mere tomorrow. Patrick, one of the stable hands, has indicated his opinion that the ice is thick enough for such an activity, and Master Mycroft has become very keen on the idea. It is good for the child to get out into the fresh air, and it is pleasant indeed for his poor governess not to have to chivvy him into an outing for once! I think I _do_ like him, just a bit, but he has such a prickly, cold personality, that it is hard to get to know him. We have recently blundered into geography, and this holds his attention very well. Even better, there are no maths involved! Just now, we are in the midst of discovering the Amazon and Niger rivers, quite like Messrs Bates and Wallace. It is quite nice to imagine a humid jungle in place of the snow that is currently drifting in the lane.

I have just had a thought! I believe I shall go down and ask Miss Vivienne if she would like to join in our skating tomorrow.

Quite inspired,  
Lottie

3 December, 1857  
"the second-floor sickroom"

Oh, it is pleasant to be able to write in peace once more! I suppose I really should not say anything ill of Miss Vivienne, but I am glad to be free of her, if only for the evening. She has had a gentleman caller, and won't return until frightfully late, so I am quite at ease in writing again, for there is no chance that she shall interrupt.

It's horrid to tell tales like this, I know, but perhaps since it's just between you and me, Diary, it will be a little less bad of me. Although, with Miss Vivienne about, I cannot be entirely certain that my anecdotes will be restricted to these pages. I had picked up my pen to write yesterday, when she flounced into the room, and demanded, in that pert, laughing manner of hers, to know what I was doing. She pulled the book from my hands, and began to read – _aloud!_ – the first passage I had written, that day on the train which seems so long ago. I feel that I was quite within my rights to storm at her, and she seemed repentant of it. Still, I took pains to hide my journal, and I believe I shall continue to do so, for it seems evident that she's a bit of a snoop.

I find that I am not entirely certain that Mrs Holmes was not justified in some of her opinions of Miss Vivienne. I cannot criticise this latter of being less than amiable, yet I find myself a bit suspicious of her motives. Perhaps it is only that I yearn to blame my misfortune on someone. Ah well, my ill luck is Master Mycroft's gain, for his lessons have been suspended until the New Year, owing to my inability to walk at present. The local physician, Dr Hathaway, has been by and he seems competent enough, although I did not care for his diagnosis of a torn anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee.

I owe this most recent predicament to the afternoon spent skating upon the mere. There is some justification in saying that Miss Vivienne is at least partially to blame – although I cannot be entirely sure, I believe that she deliberately initiated the tangle that resulted in my injury. She skates quite gracefully, and I find it unlikely that she would have simply lost her balance due to some imperfection of the ice, as she claims. In any event, it is lucky that Mr Holmes came by just then with the carriage, for I doubt I would have been able to walk back up to the manor. The swelling in my knee has only just begun to subside, and the pain is still excruciating when I move. The doctor seems confident that the tear was only partial, and assures me that I will regain a good range of movement in time, for which I suppose I ought to be grateful.

Still, it is a shame! I have had a letter from Father, who wrote to inform me that Lenczevsky will be speaking about the curious French mammoth assemblage. Even without the tantalizing promise of attending the lecture, I had been looking forward to returning home for the holiday season. As things are, it appears that I shall join in the celebrations at Aspen Hill. Mrs Holmes was up earlier to invite me to stay, which was charitable of her, to be sure, and would have been more so had she not tacked an acerbic "Considering the circumstances" onto the end of her invite. Either Miss Vivienne has been twitting her again, or she did in fact make the offer under duress. Both are equally likely scenarios – Mr Holmes has been very kind to me, despite what I suspect was my rather obvious discomfort at having been carried in his arms up to the carriage. If pressed, I would have to admit that it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation, however disconcerting. But there! Enough of that, Lottie!

As to Miss Vivienne: if one can believe Jane's testimony, the violinist has been at pains to insinuate certain things to the lady of the house. Not only does she cast aspersions upon her sister's looks and figure, but speaks against her value as a wife, citing a single child as proof of inadequacy. I would have thought that a progressive woman like Miss Vivienne would have placed a higher worth upon intellect and personality, than the ability to breed! It is infuriating, really!

I realize, however, that it is entirely possible that Jane has misconstrued the situation, or made it up out of whole cloth. Time will tell, I am sure. The pain is becoming quite fierce, and I find my thoughts too distracted to write more, so I believe I shall put aside my pen.

Goodnight,  
Lottie

* * *

Mr Currie's belief in Providence was, to all appearances, vindicated later that month, for Charlotte rallied. She began to spend more time awake in the daybed, and eventually paid short visits to the classroom, where she would spread out her lacework, and listen as the tutor and child took turns at reading Arthurian tales. The book had been a peace offering of sorts to the boy – the tutor had brought it up with a wry smile, and a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. Whether or not Richard Currie had been thinking back to his own boyhood, or possessed some insight into the mind of his student, one cannot say, but he seemed to anticipate the wooden broadswords that quickly became an integral part of their literary pursuits.

Simple readings and play swordfights took on a new dynamic after Mr Currie asked Charlotte to read as Guinevere, or some other female character. Soon there were inflections, followed by gestures, postures, and expressions. One afternoon, Charlotte took Mr Currie aside, and bade him rummage in one of the storage rooms for old clothes and draperies, which, with a few snips, stitches, and a sprinkle of imagination, became the fine garments of the court of Camelot.

All of this was, of course, done with an ear to the door for the approach of The Widow, who would have said any number of scornful things about the sinfulness of the dramatic arts, in particular when they were practised under what she had come to think of as her own roof. Perhaps she had managed to convince the house of her ownership, for it had begun to respond to her demands: the kitchen stools were never haphazard anymore, the door to the _salle de jour_ was always tightly shut (save when Mrs Penn stopped by for tea), the glass of the conservatory was spotless, and most of the great, heavy pots with their gracefully drooping ferns had been upended at the far end of the garden.

"Too messy, too uncontrolled," The Widow said of Charlotte's ferns. Instead there were bright cheery little pots of neat chrysanthemums, heavily pruned tea roses, and gaudy tropical orchids. Sherlock found it overbearing, like the parlour with its rose-patterned carpet. It was interesting enough to engage one's attention for a short while, to be sure, but it was not exactly comfortable, and never relaxing, as the mysterious scent of the ferns had been.

Charlotte had been bitterly upset, the day that the stable boy and the new maidservant had lugged the cumbersome pots down the garden path and beyond the hedgerow. Sherlock had never seen her cry openly before, but she dashed tears from her face that day, her bony fingers protruding like pale twigs from the voluminous sleeves of her dressing gown as she gripped the window frame. There was a highly useful tree just outside Sherlock's window, and although he hated to disturb the robins' nest, the situation seemed to warrant it. That night he clambered down the trunk with ease that spoke of experience, and set off to salvage what he could of the ferns, but the task was doomed to failure. He thought that it must have cheered Charlotte a bit, though, when he brought up a chipped terra cotta pot containing all that remained of a favoured _Osmunda_.

The Widow's touch pervaded other aspects of Sherlock's life as well. He took all of his meals upstairs, now – there would be no more of his "wild ways". Nor was he permitted to wander about outside by himself any longer; forays into nature were conducted under the supervision of Mr Currie.

But still, there was the acting, and that was something, to be sure. All manner of verse and prose had become fodder for their imaginations, and the more The Widow tightened her grip upon the affairs of the household, the braver the trio became.

One lazy afternoon The Widow expressed an interest in seeing Mrs Penn's begonias, and Robert Holmes obligingly drove down with her. It is difficult to say whether or not Mr Currie had been chafing under The Widow's most recent tongue-lashing (his muddy boots, it seemed, were an affront to the dowager's dignity). Whether or not his idea was ignobly inspired, it was heartily agreed to by his co-conspirators. Within an hour the costumes and props had been assembled, one of the hands had been convinced to drive them down to the bridge, and Mr Currie had carried Charlotte's slight form down the stairs.

It was Tennyson's tale of Shalott that they re-enacted: the bridge became "four grey walls and four grey towers", some half-finished lacework a tapestry, and a skiff moored just above the bridge would serve well for the Lady's final journey. Lancelot's plumed visor had to be improvised with a jaunty feather tucked into Mr Currie's hat brim, but Sherlock had no difficulties in imagining gleaming armour as he recited the verses in a clear, confident voice.

It was only as Charlotte stooped with a piece of chalk to inscribe the words _The Lady of Shalott_ upon the prow that he felt a twinge of unease in his stomach, but it was soon gone, floating away on the slight breeze. The skiff drifted gently into the current, and they walked the bank alongside the Lady and her craft as Sherlock recited. Finally, Mr Currie pulled the skiff ashore before dropping to one knee. And then the tutor fell away, and he was Sir Lancelot again, who gently intoned, "she has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace."

* * *

The station was quiet when we arrived, and we soon caught sight of the Reverend, who was engaged in conversation with a rough, weather-beaten fellow, who nevertheless had the carriage of a gentleman. Upon noticing us, the Reverend smiled, and waved us over so that we might make the acquaintance of his companion, whose identity, it transpired, was Edward Ross. He was a short man, but powerfully built, and he gripped my hand with rather more intensity than was comfortable. "I have read your work," he said, by way of greetings to me, "although, I must say, I find it rather sensational." I could not take this to heart, for it was not a foreign sentiment to my ears. Holmes, however, looked slightly askance at him, evidence, in my opinion, of the hypocritical dichotomy in my friend's personality.

"You are the uncle of the unfortunate young lady, if my memory serves?" Holmes had fixed Ross with a calculating gaze.

Ross' lips thinned as he nodded his head mournfully, and cast his eyes to the ground, "That's so, Mr Holmes, that's so indeed. The poor girl. And she was such a beauty! Such a young, vivid thing. I, why, I'm quite at a loss over the whole affair. Do you know, this morning I came down to breakfast, and it seemed to me like this whole nightmare was just that, and I should find my girl Cecilia waiting at the table, ready to pour my coffee. I keep expecting that I'll wake up, and this will all be over, and life will go on, but it won't, will it?" And he looked up with such a pitiful light in his eyes that my heart went out to him. Loss and grief seemed to have been etched into the very lines of his face, and his earlier bravado had entirely given way to slumped shoulders and an air of dejection.

Reverend Currie moved to place a hand on the man's shoulder; this action seemed to brace him, and he nodded at the clergyman's words. "Let me direct you, my son, to Psalm 5, verses one through twelve. At this time, do not feel shame in taking comfort from the Lord, for He is our protector, our saviour, and humanity's ultimate judge. This travesty, it will not go unpunished. Not in the Kingdom of Heaven, nor here on Earth."

Ross looked towards my friend at this last pronouncement. Holmes appeared to consider his choice of words carefully, and when he spoke, it was indeed with great deliberation, "I know little of the will of God, or how He will pass judgement upon sinners. However, I assure you, Mr Ross, that if some crime has been committed, we shall soon see to the bottom of the matter. Whether or not God chooses to pass judgement, I've little doubt that Her Majesty will. Take comfort in that, if you will."

Edward Ross nodded, took a deep breath, and seemed to gather himself. "I suppose, then," he said, "we had best get on with it."

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Shortly after I sent the reply telegram, the mortician changed his mind. He's decided upon cremation, and wishes to begin later tonight, so it will be necessary for you to conduct your inquiry this evening," the Reverend explained. "Mr Ross has requested that he be present during the examinations, as a final duty to the memory of his niece."

I could tell that Holmes was not pleased to have circumstances dictated to him in this fashion, but he didn't comment, save to give a sharp, irritated nod. He left at a brisk march to make arrangements for our luggage to be transferred to the hotel, and I could tell that Edward Ross was discomfited by his cold, clinical tone when upon returning, my friend suggested that we waste no more time that could be spent assessing the body.

When Ross had left us to have the carriage brought around, Holmes turned to the Reverend with a look of supreme annoyance. "What do you mean by directing him to the fifth Psalm? I was under the impression, sir, that it had not yet been established that a murder had taken place. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to the rest of the facts that the papers have not seen fit to publish?"

"All in good time, Sherlock, my boy. First, we must attend to this matter of the body, and once Mr Ross has left us for the evening, I shall lay all I know before you. Come then, that's the carriage; let's be off."

The drive to the mortuary was dismal. It had begun to rain, and the drumming of raindrops on the roof took the place of any conversation that might have occurred. Holmes had turned away from us to gaze out the small window, and Ross' attention was focussed upon his clasped hands. From this latter, there was occasionally emitted a ragged breath that spoke of great sorrow. In all other respects, my companions were silent, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

Finally, I could take no more of the stifling silence, and voiced a question that had plagued me earlier: "In your letter, you mentioned that this tragedy had befallen Miss Worthington on the 23rd. I wonder that the body hasn't been prepared by now?"

The Reverend glanced over at Ross before responding to my query, "Lyme Regis is a small enough locale, especially out of the tourist season, that the coroner's office is a bit lethargic. His name is Benton, and I'm sure Mr Holmes will be speaking to him in the morning. He's a member of the congregation, and a finer, more upstanding fellow you couldn't ask for, but yes, he is a bit sluggish. Furthermore, our local mortuary has never dealt with a body in quite this state before. Fuller was obliged to put a telegram in to London to have someone more knowledgeable come down and venture an opinion, he's been quite at a loss himself."

I myself have seen dead men aplenty, and the thought that the body should have been so savaged as to stymie the mortician's efforts gave me a queer, clenching feeling deep within my gut.

"Not that fancy London experts do a bit of good anyhow." Edward Ross had resurfaced from his melancholy, "All that wasted time, while my poor girl lies there, when she could have been decently buried in a closed coffin days ago! Or cremated even, since that's the final verdict of the London experts anyway! What was the use of waiting, eh?"

I had no answer to the question, but the passion in the poor man's voice was enough to draw Holmes away from his musings. It would, perhaps, have been better had this not occurred, for his words were sardonic.

"Why, Mr Ross, does your opinion of London's finest transcend the ranks of undertakers? As to the use of waiting, it is my professional opinion, as a "London expert", that it will be most helpful to have seen the body. Surely, in your quest for justice you would want all the evidence to be at an investigator's disposal?"

Ross gave a barely audible gasp, whether in pain or outrage I could not tell, for he returned to the contemplation of his hands. The Reverend's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. My partner gave a triumphant little sniff as he turned back to whatever view the window afforded him, and silence reigned again.


	6. Of Flesh, Willing and Otherwise

_A/N: From this point onward, expect updates to be sporadic. There is also a readers guide available for anyone interested in close readings; check my profile._

**Chapter VI: Of Flesh, Willing and Otherwise**

_She left the web, she left the loom,  
She made three paces thro' the room,  
She saw the water-lily bloom,  
She saw the helmet and the plume,  
She look'd down to Camelot.  
Out flew the web and floated wide;  
The mirror crack'd from side to side;  
'The curse is come upon me,' cried  
The Lady of Shalott._

6 December, 1857  
"the second-floor sickroom"

How I wish that I were once again viewing the mere from my charming little garret! Having been installed upon the second floor has had the effect of allowing the habits and patterns of the other occupants of the manor to insinuate themselves upon my consciousness.

For instance, I have become aware that Mrs Holmes takes tea in her private sitting room at precisely 4:17 every afternoon, and spends the next forty-three minutes in addressing her correspondence. After this, the lady of the house rings for Jane to remove the tray, and sets about dressing for dinner. One could set his pocket-watch by the click of her boudoir door.

I have also become aware of a harsher facet of Miss Vivienne's personality, which has caused me a significant measure of disquiet. I have pleaded off dinner this evening with complaint that the medicines Dr Hathaway has prescribed for pain have soured my stomach. Although this is not, in fact, the case, I fear I would not be able to bring myself to consume anything substantial in any event. There seems to be a bitter taste in my mouth that I cannot wash away.

This afternoon, Miss Vivienne joined her sister for tea, and her voice is commanding enough that I could hear her quite clearly, although my own door was firmly closed. I shall try to reproduce the conversation as I recall it:

"It is true, as you say, Vivienne, that my youth has faded, but I do not think I am so decrepit as to have forgotten whether or not I had invited you to join me this afternoon. Rather, I seem to remember telling you that I wished to see very little of you at all. Robert may be enchanted by your simpering little ways, but I am not. Leave me."

"My most sincere apologies for having intruded upon your divine presence, Your Majesty." Vivienne's voice was a honeyed snarl, and I heard a decided _thump_ as she took a seat.

"Vivienne." There was a note of warning, now, that went unheeded.

"You would do well, _Stella_, to keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and family at your very breast. I am no villain, Estelle. You may interpret what you like from that scene in the garden, but I swear to you--"

"You would swear with a forked tongue! I know your nature. There is only one thing to interpret when a woman finds her lawful husband in the clutches of another!"

Miss Vivienne had stood at this, for I heard her stamp her foot against the floor in a sudden fit of rage. "I shall have you know that I am no trollop, and if such occurred – and mark, you've no proof save your own word – I did not initiate it. If your husband seeks another woman, it is likely not without cause. You are a frigid bitch, Estelle, and it will be your undoing!"

There was an audible crack as the lady's open palm met her sister's face, and it was followed with a stunned silence. By now, my curiosity was thoroughly piqued, and so intently was I listening that I am certain I forgot to breathe.

"You know," Miss Vivienne's voice was shaky, and she dropped her tone somewhat, as if suddenly afraid that she might be overheard, "You know in your heart that you've never had his love. A business acquisition, Estelle! Robert needed backing in the California business, and you were the price of Papa's cooperation. And still you put on airs. For oh, the great Estelle, so pretty, so intelligent, so _worldly_… Oh, Estelle could never be less than magnificent."

Mrs Holmes' voice was detached and cold, "I'll not listen to your sauce any longer, Vivienne. I may be forced to house you, but I will not have you in my private apartments. Leave. _Cet instant!_"

"You were an embarrassment to Papa, Estelle – No one wanted you after Charles! English swine, and two decades your senior. You even named Robert's child after another man! And you have the sheer audacity to label me a whore!"

I heard the defiant click of her heels as she marched to the door. She flung it open, and the resounding crack of the glass doorknob upon the wall nearly startled me out of my skin. Her next words were from the hall, and I could hear them clearly.

"I have no nefarious designs, Estelle, but if I were you, I would pay close attention to that governess of yours. It might interest you to know, Stella darling, that Robert was uncommonly concerned for her well-being when she fell. She's pretty enough to turn his head. And _bourgeois_, too, so I imagine her womb is as fertile as any in that class! In that respect, I am tempted to say she is a better woman than you!"

For an instant, I believe I mistook the clatter of Vivienne's boots upon the stair for the rapid beat of my heart. I do not know how long a time I lay back upon the pillows, numb with disbelief. It mustn't have been terribly long, for Jane was soon at the door, stealthily working the knob. She stood upon the threshold for a goodly time, during which I feigned sleep. Finally, she left, and I heard her knock gently upon Mrs Holmes' door, murmuring in a soft voice that I was asleep, and did the lady want me woken?

Apparently the response was affirmative, for Jane returned, and shook me "awake". "And what would you like me to bring up on a tray, then, Miss Jamieson? Mauricette's got a nice stew with dumplings, and there's an apple pie keeping warm in the oven." I thanked her, but indicated that I did not feel up to eating, and indeed, I did not, and do not.

My downfall, I am sure, is named Claudia Penn.

I do not believe I shall ever sleep well again, but nevertheless, I will bid you

Goodnight,  
Lottie

27 January, 1858  
"the nursery"

Master Mycroft has been trying my patience today. He is in a fit of sullens, having had a promise that he might accompany his father into town retracted. Were he my own child, I should consider him rather spoilt, although I suppose it is a good thing that his father dotes upon him so.

Nevertheless, it puts his poor governess in a rather difficult position. I have no desire to be always branded the villain in his mind, yet such has become my role. I have set him to writing a composition today, and he is rather wilfully ignoring my directions. Granted, the royal lineage is a somewhat dull topic upon which to write, but I do not feel the choice of topic should determine whether or not he ought to follow my directions. I have just now put aside marking his arithmetic, and attempted to assess his progress with the composition. I say attempted, because one simply cannot assess a blank page.

I believe that I shall have to speak with the child's mother as to what punishment is merited by this behaviour. I dread doing so, for Mrs Holmes has been ill-disposed towards me of late, and I need not guess at the source of her displeasure.

I abhor the thought of confrontation with her, but I am beginning to wish that she would simply toss me out, rather than indulge in these petty little rages of hers. A week ago, I had a migraine and had taken down my hair in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain. For weeks on end she avoids the uppermost floor of the house, but on this day, some fancy took hold of her mind, and she decided to oversee one of my lessons. She flew into a terrible temper at the sight of my braids, and pulled my hair so fiercely that I was left in tears. Quite aside from the humiliation of being treated in such a fashion, I have little doubt that it has diminished my authority with the child.

If it had been an isolated incident, I feel certain that I could have put it from my mind. Just yesterday, however, she took exception to the cut of my dress, and I was forced to go back upstairs and change into a more modest garment.

And to make matters worse, Mr Holmes has become increasingly solicitous. Today, before leaving for the rail station, he told Mycroft that he would bring him back a box of sweets, if the child would promise to "share them with his pretty governess".

I am completely at a loss as to what should be done about this situation, or if there even _is_ a situation. Perhaps I am reading entirely too much into recent events and my own eavesdropping. Perhaps I am simply deluded. Is it a mark of insanity to wish oneself delusional?

Frustrated,  
Lottie

11 February, 1858  
"the south garret"

The master and mistress of Aspen Hill have had a spectacular row. Mr Holmes – should I write his name as Robert, now? – has been up to my garret. He must have come shortly after midnight, for it is just nearing dawn, now.

I was awakened by his weight upon the bed. His breath reeked of spirits when he leaned close to speak. "If I am to be accused, I may as well commit the crime", he said.

I feel very numb inside, except for that stiff pain that assures me that although this may have been a nightmare, I was thoroughly awake.

I no longer fear any accusation of impropriety from Mrs Penn, for such would be entirely justified.

There is a scream waiting to shake loose from inside of me.  
Lottie

16 March, 1858  
"the south garret"

Today has been a day for the mail. Father has written to tell me of the Royal Society's doings, and laments, half-jokingly, that it is a shame I were not born a boy, that he might have a son to carry on his researches. I find that I quite agree with this sentiment. Mother has added her postscript to the letter, admonishing me to behave myself, and always act like a lady.

How does a lady act? Does she act like Estelle Holmes, so insecure in her position that she tries for a second child, against her doctors orders? Does she act like Eliza Amherst, who has written to tell me that she has heard something "deliciously naughty" about my time at Aspen Hill? Or does she act like Lottie Jamieson, who steals from her room at three taps upon her door, and lies down upon a foreign bed?

This must end. One way or another, this must end. I stole a knife from the kitchen earlier. Before I sat to pen this, I pressed the cool steel of the blade against my wrist, but could go no further.

I am afraid of blood.  
LJ

22 May, 1858  
"the south garret"

I am feeling decidedly ill from the heat, and the feeling is only exacerbated by the restrictive collar of my dress. I have bruises from his teeth upon my neck and torso. It is all I can do at times to keep from crying out, he pains me so.

I am lost. Lord, be my Shepherd, despite my sins.

I have tried to ignore the tapping, but it is only worse for me if I do. I cannot leave, for he threatens to blackmail me. I will not break my father's heart in such a fashion. The shock and scandal would utterly crush him, and he does not deserve such pain.

I cannot speak to Estelle. She has had a private smile upon her face for the past week, and I will not disrupt any happiness, even if false, that she has found.

I cannot run, for lack of a place to run to.

God help me, I do not want to run.

God help me, I am eager to hear that wretched tapping!  
LJ

8 June, 1858  
"beneath the bridge"

Jane asserts that Mrs Holmes is pregnant, and I could certainly believe it, for the serene glow of expectancy has softened her features wonderfully.

This morning I was violently ill, and I have since developed a nagging pain in my lower back. I know the cause of my malaise, and it is time to gather my courage. I must speak with Robert, or embrace the knife.

God forgive me my sins.  
Charlotte

* * *

"I don't believe that I shall attend, and I can't see any reason for Sherlock to have to, either. You may continue his lessons as usual on Tuesday." Her tone was soft, which added to the weariness she projected, but diminished the raspy edge to her speech that the constant coughing had produced. 

Currie pursed his lips, "I do understand that you do not feel up to sitting in a warm church for hours, but surely it would be a sign of respect for the boy to attend?"

"Mr Currie -- Richard," there was sudden tenderness in her eyes as she gazed up at him, "Sherlock will be attending my own funeral soon enough. There is no need to burden him with Simon Penn's. I agree that it would be a mark of respect, but to whom? The dead don't care, Richard. They are simply dead, and gone, and rotting into soil. And his widow? You may think me cruel, but I don't doubt that it was one of the happiest days of her life when the commissionaire brought news that he'd been shot in the riot."

"It appals me that you say such things, certainly."

"Well, I have often appalled you. It is good that some things remain unchanging, is it not?" Her smile was wry.

Currie found that he had to look away from her thin face. He strode over to the window, and pushed the lace back that he might look down into the yard, instead. A thought was troubling him, and he hesitated to give it voice. Who was this sad, bitter woman, who so casually remarked that when she needed the Lord, she was ignored? "I wish, oh Charlotte, I wish that – "

"Don't. Just – Please, Richard, don't speak of halcyon days and things that ought to have been different."

He didn't attempt to speak again for a long time, and the quiet grew heavy and uncomfortable between them. It was with the frustration borne of incomprehension that he finally spoke again, "How can you possibly bear the thought of dying with no hope of an afterlife?"

A sharp rapping upon the door interrupted whatever response she might have given. Robert Holmes pushed the door open abruptly, and strode into the room. "I asked you not to entertain the tutor in your bedchambers." He glared at Currie through narrowed eyes. "Leave us."

"You are a fine one to insinuate such things, Robert Holmes. I seem to recall you entertaining, or being entertained by, a governess in _your_ bedchambers." Charlotte's tone was suddenly venomous.

"These are not matters that I wish to discuss before an audience," he bit out, before turning again to the tutor, "Did I, or did I not tell you to leave, Mr Currie?"

"Stay, Richard. These are my apartments, Robert, and I am still mistress of this house, despite your sister-in-law." She gestured for Currie to resume his seat, and the tutor did so, trepidation racing through his veins.

She turned away from where her husband stood, and focussed instead upon Currie. "I must apologise for this interruption in our conversation."

"Damn it, woman, I will not be ignored!" Currie could see a furious, manic light in the other man's eyes.

"Robert, I'm tired. Let me have some peace."

Holmes took three long strides to the edge of her bed, and jerked her up by the shoulders. "You aren't too tired to have a _tète á tète_ with the tutor. And Gertrude tells me you weren't too tired to pin beetles with that idiot child earlier. Surely, my concerns are more important than that!"

"No, Robert, whatever concerns you have do not take precedence. I will pretend health and vitality for Sherlock's sake, but never again will I pretend anything for yours. Get your hands off of me, and let me rest. I'm dying quickly enough, without you hastening the process."

He dug his fingers into her shoulders until she winced. "Why have you sent for the solicitor?"

"It is none of your business, Robert."

"You are my wife! That makes it every bit my business!"

Currie suddenly found that he had risen to his feet, and that his fingernails were digging in to the palms of his hands. "The fact that she is your wife does not give you leave to assault her in such a fashion. Release her, this very instant!"

"This is none of your concern, Currie. I'll thank you to mind your own business. Well? Answer me, woman! Why the solicitor?" His voice dropped, low and dangerous.

"If you must know, I am altering my will and testament. No doubt you are only concerned about losing the money that Father left me. Save that I do not trust you to do right by your second son, I couldn't care less about the money. I am not so far gone, however, as to not realize what it means, that Simon Penn is dead. I am arranging for Sherlock to be sent to Annie when I die, because I will not have your mistress raise my boy. Estelle was stupid enough to trust you, but I have seen the colour of your heart."

He snarled something profane, and slammed the door on the way out.

"Do you see," the lady said, at last, "why I do not fear death, why I would embrace it? I have no need of God anymore, so I'll thank you not to preach to me. If you want to help, in some fashion, there is something else that you can do."

"Name it." Her words had made a hard knot of pain in his chest, and it seemed difficult to speak.

"There is a way through the willows on the east side of the bridge. Go beneath it, and you'll find that some of the bridge pilings have shifted. You'll need to take a trowel. I want you to dig along the base of the pilings, just where they're leaning. You'll see it. I want you to look for a box wrapped in oilcloth. It contains my journals, and I would like you to bring them to me."

* * *

The undertaker, Fuller, was a short, portly fellow, whose habitual stance seemed to involve leaning against a wall with his stubby fingers clasped across his paunch. He drew in each breath with slow determination, as though savouring the stale air. Perhaps, having spent so much time surrounded by the stifling incense and sharp chemical odour of the mortuary, the atmosphere in the stagnant, dusty crematorium seemed fresh to him. 

Miss Worthington's body had already been moved from cold storage to the crematorium by the time we had arrived. Fuller had greeted us with only mild irritation at our intrusion upon his procedures. He made a show of grumbling and sighing, his drooping moustache wagging emphatically and lending me the impression of a disgruntled walrus. Perhaps my smile disarmed him a bit, for I found myself acting as liaison between him and the testy detective.

I could not tell whether Holmes was in the process of working himself into a temper, or not. His manner was never effusive at the best of times, and he was disposed to silence and solitude whenever he examined evidence. It seems a cruel thing to refer to a human body as evidence, but I've little doubt that this was exactly the light that he perceived Miss Worthington's remains in. There is much to be said for compassion, but I found myself wishing for some measure of my friend's cool detachment as Fuller pulled the shroud from the corpse.

Cecilia Worthington had almost certainly been a beautiful woman. The features that I could discern were fine, and framed by waves of russet hair. A single, clouded green eye met my gaze. The other appeared to have been torn from her face, its gaping socket crusty. The devastation did not end there, either. The flesh that had covered her zygomatic arch hung in ribbons along the side of her face, exposing her jaw. Fuller appeared to have begun an attempt to reconstruct her cheek, for there was a wedge of darkened cotton just beneath the arch, and a sizeable amount of her upper cheek had been pinned in place. The effect was as if Shelley's Dr Frankenstein had been at work upon the body, and I was strangely relieved when Holmes started to remove the pins.

Soon, he had exposed her jaw entirely, whereupon he turned to address the mortician, "I see no evidence that you have wired the jaw. Would it be correct to presume that it has not been manipulated?"

"Quite so, quite so. The one tidy thing about this corpse!" Fuller spoke in a quick, chirping manner, which seemed too cheerful for such dour circumstances.

Holmes returned to the body, and began to soften the dried blood that caked what remained of her lips to her teeth. Edward Ross appeared to be horrified by Holmes' nonchalance, and when my friend began to hum quietly to himself, I was forced to lay a hand upon Ross' shoulder. This sudden movement seemed to remind the detective that he had an audience.

"You'll note, Watson," He began to lecture, "that the jaw is clenched quite tightly. One can presume from this that the body was, initially, face down, for had it been otherwise, the gravitational action upon the muscles would have overcome the instinctive contraction. As this has not occurred, I should lay odds that the body was oriented in the fashion I have described, at least until rigor mortis set in. The tongue," he paused to grip the jaw, "will satisfy the question." There was a sickening sound as he pulled the jaws apart.

"Well now!"

I leaned forward, but he said nothing more as he moved close to inspect the unfortunate woman's mouth.

Finally, Fuller spoke up, his curiosity obviously roused, "Well now, what? Something interesting?"

"I should say so. She has made a liar of me, but no matter, I am quite confident as to the orientation of the body, and the constabulary will no doubt be capable of verifying my conclusions. Actually, I am surprised that you've not noted this peculiarity yourself, Mr Fuller."

"What peculiarity?"

"Why, Miss Worthington has had cause to bite cleanly through her tongue. It is a curiosity, don't you agree?"

The three of us shared a look of confusion, but the detective paid us no mind, having returned to his scrutiny. He had produced a small hand lens, and was examining the dead woman's teeth with this instrument. After a short time he straightened, and shot us a quick, triumphant grin, before running his spidery fingers along the curve of her scalp.

Edward Ross did not know Sherlock Holmes as I did, and I could tell that a sense of outrage was building within the stocky man. He had taken to clenching and unclenching his fists, and I was certain that I'd heard him grind his teeth. When Holmes flipped the shroud back to reveal the torso, Ross shuffled from foot to foot, but subsided when I squeezed his shoulder.

Holmes was oblivious to this little drama. He darted back and forth around the corpse, viewing the gaping wounds from as many angles as possible, and occasionally holding a measuring tape against the body. Now and then he paused to observe some detail with the lens, all the while shaking his head.

"It is a shame," he murmured, "that you felt it necessary to have cleaned the body so thoroughly. So much can be determined from the spray pattern of a severed artery! Even the intestines – if you hadn't tried to pack them back into the body, I might have drawn some very interesting conclusions. As it is, it is near to impossible to determine which rips the dogs have inflicted, and which were due to clumsiness. Oh, but here's something!"

It was as he cupped a limp breast to peer at the flesh beneath it that Ross gave a snarl of rage and sprung at him. "What do you mean by it, eh? Get your hands off of her, you filthy scoundrel!"

Holmes caught Ross' wrist, impeding the blow that had been aimed at him. "Mr Ross, believe me when I say that I am sympathetic to your loss, and wish to cause you no more distress. My interest is clinical, I assure you. If, however, you cannot control yourself, I shall have to ask Dr Watson to escort you outside. I simply cannot conduct an investigation under physical attack."

Ross was breathing hard, and his eyes were wild. Fuller took hold of his arm, and steered him towards the door. "Come, Eddie, we'll have a quiet pipe and let these gents finish up. Mr Holmes here is a fine fellow, and won't do any harm. Come on, there's a lad."

When the door had closed behind them, my attention returned to the observation of the detective and his methods. He had replaced the shroud over her face and torso, and was engaged in measuring the width and diameter of the bite marks upon her legs. The dogs had fed extensively upon the thigh of the left, and I found it necessary to turn away to draw breath.

The Reverend, having insisted that he possessed no morbid curiosity, had been waiting in the anteroom. Now, he cautiously poked his silvery head around the door to inform us that he thought it best to send Edward Ross home. Fuller, he said, would drive us down to the hotel once he had begun incinerating the body. Holmes nodded his agreement, and beckoned me over to assist in turning the body.

After what seemed to me almost cursorily viewing the plethora of wounds upon the corpse' back, Holmes straightened, and moved to rinse his hands beneath the water spigot. The evening's work, I presumed, was complete. Within a short time, Fuller had rejoined us. He was reluctantly trailed by the Reverend, who quietly intoned a few short prayers over the dead woman's body, as the mortician prepared the fire. We departed soon after, with the sulphuric odour of burning hair clinging in our nostrils, and the gentle pop and sputter of cooking flesh resounding in our ears.


End file.
